


Ripley’s Assistant

by EssayOfThoughts



Series: Ripley’s Assistant [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Swaps, Briarwood Massacre, Campaign 1 (Critical Role), Canonical Character Death, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Pre-Stream (Critical Role), Temporary Character Death, Unhealthy Relationships, mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25099492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: “They’re going tokillthem,” he says.“Yes,” she says. “And they’ll kill you too if you’re not careful. Come with me. Your family will listen to you. Talk to you. Maybe if they tell you what they know and you tell us, they might just live.”In which some roles are changed.
Relationships: Hints at later Percy/Vex, Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III & Anna Ripley, Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III/Anna Ripley
Series: Ripley’s Assistant [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817857
Comments: 138
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chamerion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chamerion/gifts).



> Tags will be added going forwards as they become relevant. If you think something that comes up should be tagged and I haven't, feel free to comment and let me know.
> 
> The whole first arc of this fic is done so I'm posting it now, one chapter per week. With any luck I'll have the next arc done by the time this is finished. As with my last fic... Anna Ripley is the _worst._
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful betas [Aster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiterou/pseuds/Kiterou), [Jacob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strandshaper/pseuds/Strandshaper) and [Chuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chuck_Johannsen/pseuds/Chuck_Johannsen), as well as the wonderful [Chamerion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chamerion) who looked over large chunks of this fic and without whom this fic would never have been written. Large chunks of this fic are _entirely_ thanks to headcanons they suggested me so *points fingers* I blame them.

“Percy,” Ripley says. Her hand is tight on his shoulder. 

“They’re going to _kill_ them,” he says.

“Yes,” she says. “And they’ll kill you too if you’re not careful. Come with me. Your family will listen to you. Talk to you. Maybe if they tell you what they know and you tell us, they might just live.”

Anna Ripley’s eyes are dark and intense, focussed as they look at him. Driven with the same drive that leads her studies but here pointed at their mutual survival.

There was a reason why Ripley, abrasive as she could be, was trusted with his education. She was a survivor and those few she deigned to take under her wing she’d try to keep surviving as well.

Percy’s hands clench and unclench at his sides. This isn’t a decision he should ever be asked to make. Julius and Vesper were expected to lead, the others all content to find various places for themselves. He just wanted to study and to learn - no responsibilities beyond his own education. 

It shouldn’t be on his shoulders to save his siblings.

_What would Julius do?_

He takes a deep breath. Squares his shoulders. “All right,” he says. “All right. I’ll help.”

“Good boy,” Ripley says. “Come along.”

* * *

The Briarwoods sit in the main hall and blood covers the walls. Servants’ bodies litter the floors and those of courtiers and cousins. There’s no sign of his parents or his siblings. Below, he hopes, in cells. Alive if nothing else. Percy stays close behind Ripley and trusts his tutor to see them safe.

“Doctor Ripley,” Sylas Briarwood says. “Wonderful. Most of the family is below, if you’re ready to start your work.” Ripley nods sharply, simple and direct and Percy would wonder at this familiarity but for the fact it’s what may keep them all alive.

“And who is this?” Delilah Briarwood asks when she spots them. 

“My assistant,” Ripley says. Her chin is held high and she doesn’t shy from the Briarwood’s gazes. 

The Briarwoods smile to one another. “I think not,” Lady Briarwood says. “Give him over.”

“He’s my assistant _now,”_ Ripley says. “And he’s clever. Besides, family is always more willing to tell secrets to family, are they not? Percy will do what is necessary if it means his family will be freed.”

For a long moment there’s silence. The Briarwoods glance to each other, long and considering. Percy wonders if Ripley will hand him over, if he’ll join his family in the dungeons and in death. 

“All right,” Delilah Briarwood says. “Let us hope he proves his worth.”

* * *

The cells have already been divided up. Those who may know and those who will not. As Percy looks them over he sees all his family but Cassandra - he wonders where she is. He knows she likes to duck out and run off, steal some servants’ clothes so she can adventure and explore unhindered. For all he knows she may be among the bodies in the great hall but right now he has no way of knowing. Instead, he goes to Ludwig and sits with his youngest brother, repeating the questions Ripley gives him.

When Ludwig gives no answers, they move to the twins. Whitney and Oliver are in opposite cells, far out of arm’s reach of one another. Percy repeats the questions and gets only shaken heads.

Vesper, when he arrives at her cell, simply stares at him. “I won’t tell you,” she says, flat and firm. They may all like Julius best but Vesper they respect. She knows the social rules, she knows what is needed. Where Julius will laugh and joke, where Julius makes friends by being friendly, Vesper does what is necessary, be it callous or kind. There’s a reason she’s Mother’s favourite to inherit. “Percy,” she says. “Whatever they’ve promised you, it is a lie. You cannot trust people who turn on hospitality like this.”

“Please,” he whispers. “They just want some answers. Then they’ll let you go free.”

Vesper’s mouth twists and she steps backwards to the rear of her cell. “If they only wanted answers, Percy, they would simply have asked.”

“Vesper-”

“Join us in the cells,” she says. “Then maybe I’ll tell you.”

But he can’t do that. Not if he wants to save them.

* * *

“Julius-”

Julius is already bruised. A black eye, a graze to his forehead. Julius wouldn’t have let himself be dragged to a cell without a fight. Vesper has strength and dignity, would stand in the face of a storm untouched. Julius would try to fight the storm, if he thought it would help family.

“Hello Percy,” Julius says. “Bet you don’t look so haggard as me.”

“I- I- No. No.”

Julius paces in his cell, clearly displeased. Sometimes he glances across the way to Vesper whose certain gaze is unflinching and without give. Percy knows his sister won’t bend. He highly doubts she’ll break. But Julius loves them all, even before duty. Tries to protect them. That’s what Percy’s trying to do too.

“How’d you manage to avoid a cell?” he asks. 

“Doctor Ripley,” Percy says. “She thinks if I can get you to tell me what they want to know, we’ll all be set free.”

Percy doesn’t think he’s ever seen his laughing brother look so sad. “Oh, Percy,” he says. “That’s not how this will work out.”

 _“Please,”_ Percy says. “I just want you all to live.”

Julius shakes his head. Smiles sadly. “There’s no hope of that, little brother.”

His parents, when he’s led to their cells, just look sad.

* * *

They die, one by one. Percy sits with them day after day, after they’re taken off the rack or from the shackles and deposited back in their cells. Tries to plead and to reason and to beg. Negotiates with the Briarwoods’ guard captain, a brute of a man named Kerrion Stonefell, to be allowed to wash his siblings’ wounds, to speak with them in the cells and be allowed out after. Sometimes, some few times, they’ll answer some small question but none of the ones the Briarwoods want answered. None of the important ones. 

His parents die first. The day before Percy’s father beckons him over to the cell as though to whisper a secret.

It’s not a secret what he says though. He just takes Percy’s face in his hands and whispers, _“Survive.”_

The next day his parents’ cells are empty and his parents’ bodies have been moved down to the crypt.

* * *

There’s no sign of Cassandra and he doesn’t know whether to be terrified or hopeful. There’s a chance, minute as anything, that she may have made it out but there’s a far greater chance that she’s lost amongst the bodies filling the crypts. Servants and courtiers and now his parents. Percy doesn’t know what he can do. When he’s not in the cells he’s working with Ripley, doing innumerable experiments on whitestone. 

“If you can’t get answers,” she says, “You must become indispensable in other ways. If you’re useful enough you may get concessions - may get some of your family released. At the very least, you will not be killed. You’ve a brilliant mind, Percival. I will not see it wasted.”

She knows what she’s talking about, he thinks, because she is in much the same boat as he is. They must both of them be useful lest the Briarwoods deem them worthless and he shoves aside his worries and sets to work. He doesn’t dare to dwell.

The others last various lengths. Percy does what he can for Ludwig and the twins: they’re the youngest in the cells, he manages to make arguments for treatment and for food.

It doesn’t save them. 

Stubbornness and resolve don’t save Vesper, either. Each time he visits she looks worse and worse, thinner and thinner. One day he visits and her hair has all been shaved off. One day he goes to visit and she’s not in her cell.

He never thought, of all his siblings, he’d hear Vesper scream.

She’s not in her cell after that. She’s in the crypts.

* * *

Julius screams often. Yells. Hurls insults. He’s long since given up on dignity, it seems. “There’s no point,” he says to Percy. “It didn’t save Vesper. It won’t save any of us. Nor will giving them answers.”

If anyone knows the secrets the Briarwoods want it would have been his parents, it would have been Vesper, it would be Julius. 

Julius says many things, when under burning iron and knives, spat out in fury and rage audible even all the way down the hall outside, but he doesn’t tell them anything until the very last day.

“It’s our duty,” he says, blood flecking his saliva. “In life and in death. Why do you think we’d tell you _anything?”_

Sylas Briarwood follows Julius’ body as it’s taken to the crypts and it’s he who takes a hammer to the far back wall.

As it cracks open, as Julius’ body is laid down beside all the myriad rest, Percy bolts.

* * *

“They’re dead,” he says to Ripley. She looks up from the papers on her desk, reading glasses low on her nose. “All of them. They- Julius-”

He stands there for a long moment, helpless and scared and sad, before Ripley sighs.

“Oh, Percy,” Ripley says. “Come here.” She pats the seat to the side of her desk, the spot he sits at when they work together on a project. He makes his way over and slumps into it. Her hand is firm on his shoulder. “You cannot help those who will not help themselves,” she says. “No matter how hard you try.” 

“I should have-”

Her hand takes his jaw, pulls his face to look at her. “Percival? You tried as hard as you could. They are the ones who did not make use of it. That is not your fault. Other people’s folly never is.”

He looks at her. Just watching and sad and upset and eventually Ripley just sighs. “I hate having to play caretaker,” she says, pulling him into some brief awkward semblance of a hug before rising. “But it’s not as though your family can. Come along. Let’s find something else to focus on. Get some work done. I won’t see you go the same way as the rest of them.”

Percy has never been so grateful to hide in a lab as he is then.

* * *

It’s over the next few days that he first starts seeing the white in his hair.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was written to a whole damn playlist which was as follows:  
> 1\. [_Animus Vox_ \- The Glitch Mob](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lv2J18MQRQI)  
> 2\. [_Mile Deep Hollow_ \- IAMX](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpZeU5KeK6w)  
> 3\. [_Cthulhu_ \- Gunship](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jo4-Bc85bF4)  
> 4\. [_Brain Damage (Bonus Track)_ \- Aviators](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0BG2H4TOJSE)  
> 5\. [_Breath of Life_ \- Florence + the Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d58VJ-sC1uY)  
> 6\. [_Honey Whiskey_ \- Nothing But Thieves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JoK5BjlmGBY)  
> 7\. [_Mind of a Beast_ \- The Glitch Mob](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZUf6p5Inc08)  
> 8\. [_I Need My Memory Back (feat. Aja Volkman)_ \- The Glitch Mob](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dzSpvFwNB4w)  
> 9\. [_Boy - Boris_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-wsep7aYLg)  
>  10\. [_Hellfire_ \- Barns Courtney](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDPNjIbFGsI)  
> 11\. [_Never Let You Down_ \- Barns Courtney](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogdHrEWpI4E)  
> 12\. [_Rather Die_ \- Barns Courtney](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0MawG6_mXmo)  
> 13\. [_Who Owns My Heart_ \- Miley Cyrus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Nh99BKltbY)  
> 14\. [_Babylon_ \- Barns Courtney](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c4HXKNyxwok)  
> 15\. [_Love Bites_ \- Aviators](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ICup9T87puc)  
> 16\. [_50 Ways To Leave Your Lover_ \- Paul Simon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABXtWqmArUU)  
> 17\. [_The New Zero_ \- Rasputina](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dyzWQqzSZGc)  
> 18\. _Raining Colour_ \- Phildel (Limited Release; Not Available Online. Listen to the rest of her stuff though, it's great)
> 
> I very much hope you all enjoyed this first chapter and if so, please leave comments!  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra spends two weeks hiding in Whitestone’s tunnels and servant’s passageways and in that time she watches almost her whole family die. Parents, strong and resolute, Oliver and Whitney and Ludwig one by one. Vesper unbending and Julius defiant. She watches Percy try to talk to each of them and then, when he has gone, Anna Ripley with fire and tongs and torture.

She’s hidden behind a statue on the day of Vesper’s death, clad in worn and dirtied servant’s clothes she’d stolen from the laundry. She’s a clear view of the hall from the cells and, directly across from the statue, the room where Ripley likes to work. Right on the juncture. She’s there when Vesper spits in Ripley’s face, when Ripley sighs and wipes it off, when Ripley turns and gestures to Tylieri’s guards with clear meaning.

Cassandra has never heard Vesper scream before in her entire life. Somehow the silence when the light leaves Vesper’s eyes is worse.

Percy doesn’t know. Percy doesn’t see. She watches him heading for the cells. Watches him enter and emerge puzzled. Watches him as he hears Vesper’s screams and turns tail and runs. 

He can’t know it’s Ripley doing this. He wouldn’t follow her like a duckling if he did. He can’t _not_ know it’s her either though and Cassandra wonders how many lies her brother is telling himself.

Cassandra is thirteen but she’s a good guess regardless. _Altogether too many._

She makes the decision to leave then as she watches Ripley writing notes down in one of her oxblood-leather journals. Notes, it seems, on what it took to break Vesper and to kill her. Cassandra de Rolo makes a decision and makes her plan and prepares to leave.

Alone.

She doesn’t know if she should feel bad for that. She should bring Percy with her to safety really, but she’s thirteen and he’s seventeen, she’s the silly youngest and he’s older and smarter and he, Cass is pretty sure, won’t leave if she suggests it.

But if she leaves him behind, he may die.

If she lingers to try to bring him along, of course, then _she_ may die, or at least end up in cells as leverage. She’s not a fool. She’s paid attention to her lessons on history and, unlike Percy, she’s not shying away from what’s happening to their family, even if she wishes she could.

She knows, though. Percy won’t leave if she suggests it. Percy who always thinks he knows best. Percy, she thinks, may just turn her over to Ripley, he’s so sure she works to save them.

* * *

Cass escapes out of the tunnels she knows as soon as she can. Bolts down them and finds herself in the woods. There’s guards wandering but they’re not in Whitestone livery, let alone that of the de Rolos. 

She’s thirteen. She’s small. She hides herself as much as she can, ducking and weaving through underbrush she used to play in. Slowly, carefully, she makes her way into town. She wants to go to Father Reynal and the temple of Pelor but over in that far direction she sees black smoke. Instead she goes through town, finds the main streets - all of them terrifyingly empty - and goes to the Lady’s Chamber.

She doesn’t dare call out though and creeps through the temple halls until she finds Keeper Yennen.

“Cassandra,” he says when he recognises her. “By the Lady.”

* * *

It takes several hours for her to tell him everything - piece by piece by fragmented piece, as fear and horror rattle around her mind.

“What do I do?” she asks him. The family may not always have liked Yennen but he was trusted. He was respected. He served Erathis so faithfully - served the _people_ \- that he would always come into conflict with corruption. Cassandra doesn’t know what else the Briarwoods are but some terrible kind of corruption - corrupting Whitestone, corrupting her brother, destroying all their home - and hopes that Yennen will have some kind of a plan. 

“I think,” he says. “It may be best you leave. They will know from your brother you exist. With luck, they will know your habit of exploring in servant’s clothes enough to suspect you amongst the uncounted dead. If not… they will be looking for you. If Percival has been promised a chance to save you all then finding any of you living will help them to control him.”

“Julius-” she whispers and Yennen shakes his head. 

“Any they capture and torture will hate them all, Doctor Ripley especially. She will not chance your brother’s loyalty breaking by way of him learning anymore than what little she lets him. Best you leave,” he says, “With the Lady’s blessing. Travel. Learn. Be strong. Return one day, if you can. I will tend the people.”

“Yennen,” she says. “I’m _thirteen.”_

He looks at her, his face inscrutable, and hands her a cloak. “You are a de Rolo,” he says. “And in a few days you may be the last de Rolo left. You cannot do your duties now but they are still yours to bear. Pelor made it no other way.”

She stares at him, wordless.

“Return to us,” Yennen says, passing her a knife. “And may Erathis protect you.”

* * *

She thinks she sees now why the family did not always get along with Yennen. 

* * *

She travels in servant’s clothes and an old worn cloak with two knives at her belt. The first was gifted by Yennen. The second she took from someone who tried to attack her. She leaves their unconscious body in the forest, stripped of knife and purse and food, and resolves to travel more quietly, more sneakily, and to go as unnoticed as she can.

She doesn’t know, entirely, what Yennen intends her to do. To travel and survive, for sure, to one day return the de Rolos to Whitestone, that too, but she has no idea how to go about that. She’s thirteen. She’s in servant’s clothes. There’s no one she can entreat to for help - even if she made it all the way to Emon and somehow convinced the Sovereign, she has no certainty that the Briarwoods won’t be able to convince him back.

And, if Percy lives, he may just lend validity to whatever they claim if only to continue to survive. If - and the thought is a terrible one to bear - he does not then she is too young yet to rule and she doesn’t know who might be left in charge of a regency in even the best case scenario. 

The worst, she knows, would be the Briarwoods.

So Cassandra travels and hopes and tries not to forget. She’s thirteen, she reminds herself. She’s a de Rolo.

She has a duty.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will take us back to Percy, worry not. Please leave comments!


	3. Chapter 3

He works. He throws himself into work. Time passes and he’s not sure how much or how quickly except that it must. There’s a frown to Ripley’s face when she watches him, her lips pursed, and he thinks, maybe, that she worries at this sudden flush of dedication. If she does, though, she says not a word. Instead, she works with him day in and day out, identifying what is needed and what isn’t, making notes on the same sheets of paper so that later they have to be written out in neat instead of in two mingled hands.

Percy likes doing that, at the end of the day. It soothes the anxious part of his brain, gives him a task to keep himself occupied with and shuts off the sounds in the back of his mind, the ominous fears he can’t let himself feel. 

More than that, too: his hand and hers mingled across pages and pages of notes. It’s as sure a sign of his place here as anything, of his purpose and his use. As Ripley had said: he has to be useful if he wishes to live. As his father had wished for him - to survive.

He can’t let his tutor down any more than he can let down the memory of his family. He mustn’t.

* * *

“No,” she says, when his fingers stray to the oxblood journals. “Not those.”

She’s never refused him knowledge before.

“Those are mine,” she says at his questioning look. “Unfinished projects. Maybe to never be finished. You may see them when they’re done, not before.”

There’s nine of them on the shelves and he can see from the dog-earing - and the lack - that at least one of them is almost empty. He’s seen her working in a few of them, though she’s quick to close them when he nears. It’s half of why he’s so curious. The other half, of course, is that they clearly matter. Now, with all his family gone, he has to matter to Ripley and the Briarwoods both. If he doesn’t he’ll most likely die.

But he understands her request. Incomplete works are too easy to pick apart and it’s all too easy to be too vigorous and cause offence. He doesn’t want to offend her, not if he can help it. Not when she’s doing all she can to keep him safe.

* * *

Whitestone has a myriad uses. Building, yes, but it’s capable of holding magic in unusual ways and plenty of places want it for that. He’s not sure what property the Briarwoods seek of it, precisely, beyond magic - whether for Abjuration or Conjuration or (most likely, he fears) Necromancy - just that it must be able to hold and use magic far more than a whitestone lump usually can.

“We need to find a way to refine it,” Ripley says, tapping the flask with the current experiment. “Some aspects of the stone may be impeding magical flow but to know which requires a greater understanding of magical and alchemic theory than either of us has right now.”

It’s obvious, the two paths laid before them. Take the time and read up on alchemy to try to understand what elements may be so troublesome, or simply keep going with the experiments that seem, at least, to be slowly nearing some conclusion.

Between experiments on whitestone Ripley experiments on other things. There’s only so many tests they can run after all and plenty that must be let alone for days at a time to reach their conclusion. Ripley has her obsession and he has his and sometimes she indulges him and lets him lead, those empty days while they wait to see what the whitestone will do.

They’ve both a long list of experiments to run. So long as it doesn’t impede the whitestone studies, no one much cares.

This is how they end up testing one of his theories about black powder and Percy ends up with a bloodied Anna Ripley in his arms.

* * *

“Anna,” he says, desperately cradling her. Where her hand was is nothing but bone and blood and it’s his fault, his fault.

“Sear it,” she says through gritted teeth. “Now.”

There’s metal, there’s fire, there’s the sizzling sound of boiling liquid and fleshy fats.

“Now,” she says, a bare modicum more easily. “Send for Yennen.”

* * *

Yennen is sent for. Yennen arrives. Yennen spends four hours and a great deal of magic on healing Ripley.

“I cannot regrow a hand,” he says. “No matter how Erathis has blessed me.”

But he heals her and, when he is done, Ripley sleeps.

While Ripley sleeps, Percy works.

_His fault, his fault, his fault._

He doesn’t know how he can make amends. Only that he has to try. The first prosthetic he makes her is clumsy but functional, bare bones of the form and barely any movement. Percy spends the next three days refining it.

“Not again,” he says to Ripley as he helps her fit it. “Please. No more black powder. I shouldn’t-”

Her finger is soft on his lips, the fingerprint burned away by acid. “Agreed,” she says. “I’ll decide from here on out.”

The metal hand twists and turns. She becomes accustomed and joins him in improving upon it on their spare days. 

Eventually Percy accepts its touch as easily as he does her hand of flesh.

* * *

In his dreams he sees fire and metal and black powder. 

In his dreams, a shadow offers him freedom and vengeance.

Percy isn’t sure if they’re the same or so different.

The dreams come to nothing in the end, tapering out after the accident and explosion, after his fear is so terrible even the idea of black powder sends him reeling in revulsion.

But the idea is set. As time goes on, as Ripley shows no resentment, his fears ease. For all he never wants to see her near black powder again, he does not fear it for his sake, only hers.

And so, some nights when he wakes he goes to work not on whitestone or whatever of Ripley’s new studies they’re exploring but on black powder. On what it is capable of, of what damage it can do, used correctly.

He tells not a soul.

* * *

“Acid,” he says. “Whatever we need to refine it to, acid is the best answer. The more acidic the better but also certain combinations - some break down the stone better than others.”

Ripley reads over the sheet he’s handed her, the chemical formula, the results. The notes etched in the margins pointing out how long even glass lasts against the alchemical acid they’ve discovered to be the best for this.

_Five days before degradation sets in. Alternate containment must be found. Consider metals?_

She looks up at him with approval and it sets some warm glow loose in his chest. 

* * *

His work pays off. He’s trusted, more and more he is trusted. Anna still checks his work of course but it’s almost cursory now, almost by rote: she knows, he thinks, that his work will always be exactly what she asks of him. He will run the experiments she asks him to run, record the results with utter precision, draw conclusions and present them to her in a neat and orderly fashion. In what other time he has, he will map the tunnels dug below, help to identify better ways to process the whitestone, how better to improve the larger lab they have down the hall and the small one in the alcove of Anna’s rooms. In his few free moments he is let be but even that he turns to purpose, finding new things to study, refining the designs for Anna’s metal hand, comparing the maps of the tunnels to the maps of Whitestone itself. 

More days than not end in Anna’s rooms and more nights than not he falls asleep at her desk. Some nights he makes it back to his own rooms but nightmares wake him, or boredom takes him and he makes his way to her chambers to at least find some semblance of purpose in amongst her papers and tomes, to check on her small lab table rather than holing up in the larger lab just down the hall.

He could do that, he knows, but that would take him further from Anna’s protection and besides, he thinks, there is something soothing in her nearness, even sleeping.

She will not, he knows, let anyone hurt him. She saved his life.

* * *

“We’re going to need a lab down there,” Anna says, metal hand gesturing over the maps on the desk. “We can refine the process up here but we’re going to need to have a base of operations down there, nearer to the ziggurat. We can hardly maintain any kind of reasonable pace when we have to commute constantly here to there and back again.”

Percy doesn’t look up from his sketchbook, merely humming assent. Anna frowns at him, perhaps because of the lack of proper response, perhaps because of his sketchbook: she’s never been particularly fond of his penchant for art. She, he knows, believes art to be a frivolity, only of use for practical diagrams, but, well, that’s what he’s sketching now and he turns his book to face her.

“Like this?” he asks. 

Anna looks at the pages, at the outlined designs for laboratories and the refinement set up, sketches of layouts and copied maps marked with likely locations. A smile curls across her face like ink in water, slow but clear.

“Good _boy,_ Percival,” she says. “Yes, just like that.”

* * *

“Here are the plans.” Anna Ripley stands in front of Delilah’s desk, back ramrod straight. “Percival’s design, for the most part, with a fair few adjustments made by myself. If we have a lab like this, we can increase whitestone conversion at the ziggurat by more than half.”

Delilah hums mildly, examining the papers. It’s very nearly _all_ Percy’s work in truth. He came up with the first drafts, he drew every revision. There are various alterations requested by Anna each time she looked them over but for the most part, it’s his work. Nonetheless, he’s grateful for Anna claiming some degree of responsibility. She’s more sway here, after all, more than him, and if she’s claiming responsibility it lifts some of the fear from his shoulders. The Briarwoods scare him still with how they linger and sometimes quietly threaten; he does not care to be in their presence any more than he has to be without Anna’s company.

(He remembers, before they’d stepped into Delilah Briarwood’s study: Anna’s hand firm on his, her eyes bright and dark. He remembers her words: “You will be safe, Percival. I will _keep_ you safe if you just stay close.” On that score, she has never yet lied.)

He stays where he is beside her and a little behind, at her left shoulder, his eyes cast down. He can see her metal hand where it curls at her side and he almost wants to reach for it. The last time he had, however, she’d pushed his hand away and he daren’t make her angry, daren’t distract her while she stares down Delilah Briarwood.

“Hmm,” goes Delilah Briarwood after a pause that makes Percy’s back prickle. “Very good. Your boy can handle overseeing the construction, Anna, yes?”

Ripley stiffens at that, Delilah seems almost to smirk. 

“I’m sure he’s capable enough,” Delilah adds and her gaze flickers to Percy. “After how useful he’s proven. You’d be able, wouldn’t you Percival?”

It takes a force of will to speak but Percy does. “I- yes, Lady Briarwood. I can,” he says, scarcely a whisper. “And _Doctor_ Ripley,” and he emphasises her title here because she may let him call her Anna in private but she has worked for her honorific and deserves to have it respected, “can oversee the ongoing refinement of the whitestone and improvements to the process.”

Delilah truly is smirking now, as Percy steps back into Ripley’s shadow.

* * *

The work consumes him over the next week. Double-checking the tunnels and caves, directing the workers, ensuring they have all the materials they need. Twice he has to go to Anna for help because he doesn’t dare go to the Briarwoods, three times he stumbles back from the tunnels at the end of the day and is met by the reliable, comforting embrace of Anna’s arms. 

(Three times he rests his forehead against her shoulder, feels her comb metal fingers through his hair and takes, perhaps, more comfort from the affection than he should. Three times he presses kisses to her shoulder in thanks. Three times he hears her hum in something close to pleasure and feels her lips press to his forehead. Three times she murmurs, _Everything will be fine, Percival. I’ll keep you safe.)_

(Three times he considers lifting his head to press his lips to hers.)

* * *

The next week is almost worse but at least once work starts it is easy to keep it going. The cave is cut out more precisely and carved to fit their specifications. Storage rooms are cut beside and alcoves in the main lab for a bed and personal desk in case he or Anna needs to stay below to oversee anything. Shelves cut directly into the stone: the acid they’re using will cut through even this, in time, but not as quickly as it would wooden shelves and carving the stone walls of the tunnels is easier and less costly than having metal and glass shelves made to order.

Cupboards are cut into the walls as well, nooks and crannies. A notch he’d marked out for a safe, for any truly precious materials and when Anna comes down at the end of the second week she surveys it all with a satisfied pride. Another notch, not on the blueprints, cut because he knows there is a crevice there that can be made one and because he knows he can hide it.

He knows Anna will appreciate that, something hidden from even the Briarwoods, but he doesn’t tell her just yet. He has learned that, sometimes, it is best to keep such secrets in reserve.

* * *

She keeps him safe. Over and over she keeps him safe. She checks on him when he’s down below. Not often - after all, she has her own work to attend to - but often enough. She seems, he thinks, to know when the Briarwoods draw too near - Delilah watching at a distance, Sylas from the darkness - and that it unnerves him.

“I won’t let them touch you,” she says, metal hand firm on his shoulder. His family may not have ever been ones for touch and Anna likewise but he appreciates it now, that she is so willing to rest a reassuring hand on his arm, to offer the occasional hug if he has been left especially shaken. “I promised you, I will keep you safe.”

She does and Percy draws closer to that sure safety day by day. When, in the evenings, he sits by her desk and goes over the day’s notes, she lets him sit close by, elbows knocking, and when his anxiousness gets the better of him her hand is sure and certain on his arm, his shoulder, gripping the back of his neck. He leans into her touch, trusts in the safety she brings and calms in the comfort she offers.

* * *

More times than he can count he has screwed his eyes up and _prayed_ deep in the bowels below Whitestone, the Briarwoods scant feet away, just beyond the corridor he’s down. _Pelor preserve me,_ he prays. _Pelor please._

_Preserve me as you did not my family._

He doesn’t know if it’s because of Pelor that he survives. All logic says it’s Anna, day in, day out, seeking to keep him safe, but there are times, times like this, when the Briarwoods are close and Anna is far and he stays safe nonetheless.

Some childish part of him likes to think the prayers work, for all his scientific mind knows it to be folly.

* * *

“We’ll need more materials,” Anna says, looking over his report one morning. “Look at this.” She draws a finger down one column. “This won’t last us and the current rate of supply isn’t enough.”

“A week,” he agrees, “now we’re at full production. After that we’ll need to go elsewhere or we’ll be forced to slow down.”

Anna sighs, pushes her reading glasses up to rub the bridge of her nose and then settles the small spectacles back in place. “Delilah shan’t be happy if it’s the latter.”

She sets the paper down, shuffles through some more. Percy stays put beside her, still and scared and nervous. It’s only after a few moments that Anna looks up and sees.

“Percy,” she says. “It’s going to be fine. I’ll speak to Delilah about more shipments of acid.” There’s a firm set to her face, an absolute certainty, and her furrowed brow briefly smooths to something gentler as she looks at him. Her metal hand rests gently on his arm. “I told you,” she says, voice soft and reassuring, and it soothes Percy to hear the words she’s repeated so many times. “I’ll keep you safe.”

He leans forwards and he kisses her.

It is fleeting, it is momentary, and he pulls back, pulls his arm from her hand, moves ready to leave because, he knows, he has overstepped whatever bounds now exist in whatever dynamic now exists.

She is scarcely his tutor anymore, they are hardly so formal with the affection given and received between them both, but she is still the one to keep him safe and well. 

“Percy,” she says, almost chiding, and her hand wraps softly around his wrist. 

Her lips, when they press to his, are calm and certain and as fleeting as his were on hers, but it soothes him all the same, a reassuring comfort. 

“Come along,” she says and makes for the door.

They work together the rest of the day and if Percy glances to her a few more times than usual, if he smiles over his work and seems somehow happy despite all else, then there is only Anna there to notice it.

* * *

“We need more acid.” Anna stands tall and resolute, unafraid to make her demands. Percy stays at her side, safe in her shadow. “What we have here isn’t enough and we’re going to need it in larger quantities now we have the new laboratory.”

Delilah Briarwood glances over to him, to Anna, and back again, as though assessing them. Percy keeps his gaze directed at the floor or at Anna’s hand or at his shoes. Anna’s posture doesn’t change.

* * *

Anna makes several trips. Some are short and close to home: he goes with her for those. Some are longer: he is not _allowed_ to go with her for those. Instead he stays back, stays in Whitestone. He watches over the transformation of the ziggurat, the refinement of the whitestone, the various experiments Anna runs in her free time. On days when there is precious little to do and he doesn’t dare stay in the castle he ventures into town to seek out familiar faces.

Town is deathly quiet now. Percy had only rarely bothered to go outside, let alone go to town, but he knows that it should not be this still, this empty. He walks through empty streets, crosses empty paths, and falls to a halt by the Sun Tree.

He’s never seen it this barren in all his life, even in winter.

* * *

He calms when Anna returns. Her presence is as ever a reassurance and back in the safety of their wing of the castle, in her rooms, he embraces her and is embraced by her for a brief moment before she moves to check his notes and reports.

Everything, he knows, is perfect, exactly as she could want. He watches as she flicks through the sheets, tapping her lip with a metal finger.

“Very good, Percival,” she says. “Very good indeed.”

* * *

Slowly, day by day, the whitestone is refined, the _residuum_ assigned its place. Bit by bit the ziggurat turns from pale as bone to a deep and sickly green, each part checked over and replaced with the green glass. In the deepest parts, where they cannot simply pull a block out and replace it, they pipe the acid, pipe in powdered whitestone, and watch the glass grow clearer and deeper. 

“They’ll want it completed soon,” Anna says. “That, or they’ll have to wait another year.”

He glances at her at that and pieces together what he knows. He’s only heard a little of the Briarwoods’ plans, after all. He keeps to the periphery, to Anna’s shadow, and while that means he’s overheard some things he’s sure they did not think he’d hear, he knows far from everything. “Ritual date?” he asks after a moment.

“Summoning and empowering,” she says absently. Her thumb presses to the dip of her lip the way it does when she’s thinking hard and there’s a small furrow in her brow. “Or, well, forging a connection in _order_ to empower. In theory it could be done at any date but it would take longer to take effect.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Magic. Useful enough, used right, but unreliable, unpredictable. Just like the gods.”

He glances back to the ziggurat. The lower foot and a half is turned mostly green now and the altar and chamber at the top is in the process of it as well but Delilah has been insistent that the entire outer should be transformed to _residuum,_ to better utilise the spell they plan to cast, and as much of the interior as possible as well.

“There must be some science to it,” he counters. “Some kind of rule. Even the gods abide by certain rules and even magic has limitations. Perhaps there’s a reason why one date or another is more suited and if so, perhaps we can find it.”

Anna looks askance at him, assessing. It’s a fair enough gesture. He’s hardly challenged her much since the Briarwoods but it is quiet now and the Briarwoods are in town and not the castle or tunnels and with only Anna for company he is calm and contented as he isn’t otherwise. He is, he knows, safe in her company. She will not let him be hurt. She hums a consideration. “Perhaps,” she says. “If you wish to see if you can prove such a thing though, you must do it alone, Percival. I have other duties to attend to.”

So too, in truth, does he, but it’s an interesting challenge and one he’s more than willing to take the time to work on. 

* * *

“Three and a half years,” he says, pushing his research and his calculations across the table to her. “At Winter’s Crest.”

Anna looks up from the day’s reports and raises an eyebrow. 

Percy nods to his papers. “You told me to study it alone,” he says. “By my understanding, that’s the most ideal time for a ritual of summoning and empowering. You’d need to factor in adjustments for _which_ plane they’re aiming for if not our own but-” He trails off.

She sets the reports down slowly and looks over his work with care. He expects nothing less and he watches her as she leafs through his work, humming and tutting by turns. When she’s finally done she leans back in her chair, a wide smile on her face, and Percy is entranced. 

“Well _done,_ Percival,” she says. “Well done indeed.”

* * *

He stays that night in her chambers, fast asleep in the armchair in the corner. He had thought once that, perhaps, he might just love her. It is not in any kind of doubt to him now.

* * *

“Travel safe,” Percy says. He’s grown more used to being left behind as Anna travels but he doesn’t like it, left alone in the Briarwoods’ lair without her presence to guard him. “Return soon.”

She tilts her head, lifts her hand to pat his cheek. The metal fingers are oddly gentle and he leans into the touch without thinking. “I’ll be fine,” she says. “You made the arrangements, yes?”

He nods jerkily but with certainty.

“Then I’ll be fine,” she says and clambers into the carriage. “Keep researching while I’m gone,” she calls as it starts clattering down the road. “I want answers when I return!”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know in canon Ripley lost her right hand not her left. But this is AU fanfiction and I wanted it to be _sinister._ Because honestly, Ripley is. Please leave comments!


	4. Chapter 4

She travels. Few care to listen to her but she knew that would happen. She learns to be quieter, sneakier, steal her way across counties. Steal into homes, sometimes, to steal what she needs. She’s small after all and sneaky and has always been able to steal away when she needed to. She learns Rogues skills and gets better. She’s fifteen when first she kills a man and sixteen the next time she sees Doctor Anna Ripley.

It’s in Stilben and she arrives by carriage.

* * *

She arrives with an entourage. Five guards and two servants. She orders them around with a casual confidence, moving bags to her rented rooms and Cassandra cannot help but watch. It’s a damn good thing she was in the alleyway when it happened. Ripley’s not much changed, just stands a little taller and is more willing to direct those under her. 

It brings back a rush of memories to see her, of Whitestone, the home she has yet to return to, of the Briarwoods, of blood, of bodies. Of brothers and sisters and parents tortured in the family’s own cells, of Percy, following in Ripley’s wake, eyes cast down as he tried and failed to save them. Ripley’s assistant.

But there’s no sign of him here. No young man with wild brown hair and glasses and the very start of stubble largely ignored in favour of study. 

Maybe he’s in the carriage. Maybe he’s in the rooms, setting up. Maybe he went on ahead. 

Cassandra knows that hope is foolish but she’s had so little these past three years and she doesn’t want to be _alone._

So she decides to follow her brother’s example - to stay and to study.

* * *

Five guards. Two servants. One Anna Ripley.

Cass spends a little of her meagre coin to find out why she’s here and who she travels with and only ends up more confused. Five guards and two servants, all to help her seek out chemical and alchemical reagents and all the acid possible. 

Two days pass and there’s no sign of anyone else come to join her. No sign of Percy. 

Cassandra doesn’t want to dwell on what this means but as a third day passes and a fourth and a fifth she can’t help it.

Percy is not here, following in Ripley’s wake. Percy may well be dead.

The very last of her siblings and Cassandra curls in a ball in the muddy alley she watches from and _cries._

She should have saved him. Tried to get him out. Pulled him down tunnels and halls by sheer force of will but she hadn’t. She should have stopped Ripley before she got to him and told him all the lies he was so desperate to believe but she hadn’t so much as known to.

She left Percy behind. She had known: he would not listen to her. He would listen to Ripley. She had known: Ripley wanted something of Percy if she would preserve him and not imprison him. Cass just didn’t know what. 

She had known: her brother could be foolish, yes, but he was no fool in the end. He had sense enough to survive given half a chance. Ripley gave him more than that.

She knew too that Ripley wouldn’t leave Percy behind. Not as a project in another’s hands, not as a bargaining chip in the hands of those she bargained with. Not as a ward in the hands of those who might hurt him. Not as an assistant, meant to serve. Whichever Percy was to her, she would keep him at her side as long as it took her to ensure his trust and loyalty, to be certain she had either.

There is no sign of Percy. No report of him. If Percy was still useful, if Percy still was valued then Ripley would keep him close - for power over him, for leverage against the Briarwoods, for whatever perverse joy she got turning a de Rolo against their home and duty - and there is no sign of him. If he were alive, Cassandra is sure, he would be here. Following Anna Ripley like a duckling. He’d always adored her. Always trusted her. It was the worst kept secret in Whitestone that Percival de Rolo, third child of the family, had something of a crush on his tutor. Cass had known it since she was _eleven._

He would be here. He _should_ be here.

And he isn’t.

The tears dry up. She hiccups but she doesn’t care. Grief and guilt are joined in her gut by a hard searing rage.

Across the road, in a house with merrily lit windows, is Doctor Anna Ripley. Scholar and scientist and alchemist and chemist and all sorts else. Tutor, with a duty of care. Employee, with a duty of loyalty.

The woman who saw Cassandra’s whole family killed.

Cass’ daggers are in her hands before she has time to think.

* * *

The guards are easy to get past. Not a one of them looks up. The locks are easy to pick - most guesthouse locks are, in Stilben, after being picked so many times. The servants are downstairs and Cassandra prowls the house looking for Ripley.

She who taught them, helped them, advised them.

Who turned on them, tortured them, betrayed them, killed them. 

She almost stabs Anna Ripley to her chair and only misses by half an inch.

“Guards!”

Cassandra snarls and yanks the blade free. She can hear footsteps and clattering armour though and knows she has little time.

“You betrayed us,” she snarls, knifeblade out. Ripley dodges back, no weapons in her hands but fast nonetheless. When Cassandra almost gets a strike in, Ripley raises a gloved hand desperately; the knife cuts through the leather and hits metal.

“Cassandra,” Ripley breathes. “You _survived.”_

There’s something almost viciously gleeful in her gaze but it’s nothing to the pure anger in Cass’s veins as she launches herself at Ripley, knives one-two in her hands, ready to bring down. That’s when the guards enter.

It’s over far too quickly, then.

Ripley looks down at her. She recognises her but doesn’t say a word with Briarwood guards so close. Cass finds that interesting later but in the moment she is simply angry. “Lock her up somewhere,” Ripley says to the head of the guards. “Throw away the key. Just make sure it’s outside town. Get some distance. Can’t have her causing us trouble while we work.”

The guards haul her out and haul her away and it takes Cassandra a long moment to realise that Ripley trembled as she said it all.

* * *

They take her out of Stilben and head north towards the Umbra Hills. Cass has heard nightmare tales of what can be found in the region and suspects that without orders of execution they mean to attempt the next best thing. She’s not sure why she’s so surprised; Ripley was a traitor, the Briarwoods liars, all of them murderers of the worst sort. Maybe it’s because of that: anyone willing to be so blatant surely shouldn’t pick the not-quite murder method of putting someone in a situation they cannot survive.  
  
They lock her in a cell just outside a village called Jorenn. Half her tools are left on her - they scarcely search her and some, at least, of her lockpicks are hidden so well they cannot find them: the tiny ones, tucked between gum and cheek. It’s enough to undo her shackles but not enough for the cell door.   
  
No one comes with food. The flask of water she was left with runs low.   
  
Maybe murderous vengeance was a mistake. The last de Rolo soon to be the very end of them. But for whatever reason, she lives. For whatever reason Ripley didn’t deign to see her definitively dead.   
  
She doesn’t know why. Some god’s whim perhaps but Pelor hadn’t saved the family that had served him for generations. Erathis’ so-prized laws had not bucked at the burden of the Briarwoods. The gods, she thinks, cannot be relied on no matter how pretty an idea it is to imagine.   
  
She dozes. She dreams. In waking hours she combs out hair now streaked with white.   
  
She doesn’t know how long she’s left. Days or hours or eternity. But she’s a de Rolo. She can at least face it with dignity. 

* * *

“Hey.”

Cassandra almost thinks she’s dreaming but the voice comes again and something metal raps against the bars.

“Hey,” the voice says. “You alive in there?”

When she looks up there’s a man - half-elf, she thinks, with those ears and that face - looking in, half-concerned.

“Not sure,” Cass croaks. “Is this a dream?”

“Shit, you sound terrible,” he says. He fumbles a moment for something at his belt and pulls out a flask. “Here.” When she doesn’t reach for it he crouches, sticks his arm through the bars to offer it. “It’s just water,” he promises.

Cass takes it, lifts the lid off and sniffs it, and when it proves to be exactly that she drinks down almost half its contents gratefully.

“Hey, not too much too quickly,” the man says. “You’ll get sick. Gods, you look awful.” He turns his head down the hall, yells something that sounds like _vex._ “So,” he says. “The villagers said some random guards had been messing around over here about a week back. That because of you?”

Cass, slowly, screws the lid back onto the flask. Slides it across the floor towards the man. “They threw me in here,” she acknowledges. 

“Brother,” a voice rings out. The person the man yelled for, Cass would guess. _Vex._ “You’re really going to drag me to the cells while Grog and Scanlan are looting the old guards office?”

The man gestures. A figure, almost identical to the man, steps forward and looks in. After a moment, a bear does too.

“Oh,” the other - a woman, Cass thinks, for all the similarity to the man in front of her - says. “Hello there.”

Tentatively, Cass waves a hand.

* * *

They don’t ask her why she’s in the cell. She’s grateful for that. Instead they ask perfectly sensible questions, like if she’s going to attack them if they let her out (Cass is many things but she’s not a fool), if she’s got any useful skills (Cass mentions her daggers. She does not mention she’s sneaky as hell and can dislocate her shoulders to get through narrow gaps), and if, perhaps, she’d like to travel with them.

“Doesn’t have to be forever,” the man says. “But I’ll wager you ended up in that cell because you tried something beyond your ability alone.”

The woman - Vex, Cass thinks - watches quietly throughout, a searching and observant gaze that she’s sure misses very little.

“I don’t-” she starts. “It’s- it’s been awhile since I’ve spent much time around people,” she admits. “I may not be the best of company.”

“Darling,” the woman says and there’s a teasing fondness now, to her voice. “Our group includes an incredibly awkward druid princess, a goliath who follows gnomes like an oversized retriever, a pedantic dragonborn, my bear, and _Scanlan._ I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

They’re watching her, the two half-elves, quietly but observantly. Waiting. The offer, so far as Cass can tell, seems genuine.

“I think I’d like that,” she says. “Thank you.”

* * *

The man picks the locks even faster than Cass might, quick deft fingers making short work of the mechanism. The woman steps in and offers a hand.

“Good gods,” she says as she pulls Cass up. “You’re practically skin and bone!” 

Her hands are gentle on Cass’s shoulders as she leads her out of the cell and down the hall but they drop as soon as Cass shrugs them off. “Thank you,” she says because she really doesn’t want her rescuers to take offence. “Where are we going?”

“Let’s get you introduced, first,” the woman says.

“And find her-”

“And find your things, yes.” The woman glances over to her brother. “Why don’t you go ahead and warn them we’ve someone new, Vax?”

Vex and Vax, oh that’s not going to be confusing at _all,_ Cass thinks.

The woman’s face is gentle when she looks back to Cass. “I’m Vex’ahlia,” she says, offering a hand. “That’s my brother Vax’ildan. My bear is Trinket. He’s lovely. It’s nice to meet you…?”

“Cassandra,” she says, taking it. The woman’s grip is firm, fingers covered in calluses. “Cassandra de Rolo.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will put us back in Whitestone. Please leave comments!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Ripley POV. As we all know, Ripley is the Worst.

He’s loyal. She’ll give him that. He’s smart, too, which is the reason she’s sought to save him. She’s met few with a mind like his and few so very mouldable. Percy is smart but not always wise and with his family gone he’s desperate to survive, desperate for every fleeting piece of approval she gives him - anything, if it will secure his place and his life. It’s become a simple and regular practice for her to pat his shoulder when he’s done well, to stroke his cheek when he’s worried. Any number of odd small things that make him still and calm when he gets nervy. 

He gets nervy rather less as things go on but still enough that Ripley sometimes wonders if it was worth it to save him. Then he’ll do something brilliant - make a connection between two pieces of research, figure out that copper can withstand the acid, identify the ideal concentration to break down the whitestone - and she remembers precisely why she sought to save him.

He’s a genius. He’s just also terrified.

Ripley doesn’t like that - genius being wasted and worn away at by terror. She does what little she can to mitigate it and Percy looks to her with grateful eyes as she keeps him away from the worst of the Briarwoods’ acts. It’s darling in its way, the gratitude, and a little pathetic too. But it binds him to her all the more and she’ll take what allies she can at the moment. The Briarwoods have their goals and she has hers - at some point the twain must part. That will be easier with an ally - or, if needs be, a scapegoat. And, if Percy is to be either, his loyalty must be absolute. 

He seems oblivious to what she’s done. When he came to her when his family were all dead at last, he seemed unaware that it had been her doing or under her orders. Blinkered, blind. But then, she had encouraged that. Done what she could to keep him in the dark. And, so it seemed, had his family - or, more likely, she thinks, they had thought he already knew.

Better, really, that he remain unaware - if he knew, his loyalty would falter and she needs him to be as loyal as possible. Loyalty, after all, renders people pliable and Ripley has long wanted someone as smart as Percival to be pliable to her will. It’s too useful a resource to pass up.

So when he starts looking at her with gratitude as well as the admiration that has always been there, she encourages it. Hand pats and shoulder claps, little touches to his cheek. He leans into what little affection she offers with almost pathetic need but the end result is her goal, not judgement in the moment.

Percy becomes almost desperately loyal to her.

“Come along,” she says and he follows.

“Well  _ done,” _ she says and he looks to her with a face of gladness. His hand grips hers tight when she takes his and she lets him, if it gives him some sense of safety and security.

“There we go,” she says as an experiment reaches a perfect conclusion and Percival de Rolo looks to her with dedication and appreciation that she knows together mean loyalty.

He’s always admired intelligence. Without his family to turn to, without any friends or other companionship, he adores her too for the comparative kindness she offers when pitched against the Briarwoods.

Ripley will never reject whatever power she can gain and Percy’s dedicated obedience can stand for quite a lot.

* * *

She tries to keep him out from under the Briarwoods’ thumb as best she can. It helps that he’s her assistant and thus under her care just as much as when he was her student but it’s far easier said than done, some days. The Briarwoods hardly want the last de Rolo loose and free to wander and they’re more than happy to scare him into submission. Given Delilah’s necromantic prowess and Sylas’ vampirism on top of how they eradicated Percy’s family, their presence triggers his flight-or-fight instinct more clearly than most anything - and Percy has sense enough to know that he cannot fight them.

Ripley likes it little enough that Percy is perpetually scared; she dislikes it more that there are those actively exacerbating it.

“If you wish to keep him,” Delilah says, when she tries to talk reason to the both of them, “Then he must prove his worth.  _ His _ worth, Anna, not whatever you consider it to be.”

The implication is clear: that she would lie about his participation just as every highborn student she’d ever studied alongside ever had about their own. Lied and clung to her coattails to appear successful. Her lip curls.

“I am not so interested in preserving his life that I would let him claim my successes as his own,” she spits. “If you think that, then you forget whom it is you bought.”

Delilah smiles, slow and deadly, the dagger she uses as a letter opener swift between her fingers as she slices open yet another piece of correspondence. “Then he must prove his worth,” she says blithely. “And should he fail, he shall be punished.”

She would ask that they leave punishment to her but that she knows they will not listen. She knows too that in their eyes - highborn and so certain they have every right to do as they will to those beneath them - she has asked too much already.

* * *

Percy, for all his fear, is at least trying. He has never been a fool and now, even half-blinded to sense by fear, he understands what she has told him and taught him: if he is to live, he must be useful, if he is useful, he will be allowed to live. 

He is good at being useful. It is something she has always appreciated in him, the reason, alongside his intelligence, that she agreed to tutor him in the first place. Percy, she knows, is like her: easily bored and preferring purpose to idleness. It’s a stark contrast to the highborn boys she was asked to tutor back in Wildemount and the main reason why, even before the Briarwoods arrived, she trusted Percy to work on his own. For all he was hardly a morning person, he wasn’t lazy.

The fear chases him some days: she suspects he has nightmares though he has the sense not to bother her with recounting them. Instead he joins her in downing mug after mug of coffee, staying on his feet through a combination of caffeine and sheer force of will. At times she wonders what the caffeine is doing to him - not everyone, she knows, can handle her level of caffeine intake - but for all Percy’s anxious tendencies it doesn’t appear to exacerbate them any. 

Or perhaps the lingering presence of Lord and Lady Briarwood, watching from the shadows, makes it hard to tell what small missteps are due to over-caffeination and what are due to fear.

“Calm, Percy,” she says, some days. Touch helps him, she knows, and she rests her hand on his shoulder until he relaxes under the touch of her circling fingers. “Stay focussed.”

Usually it is enough. Other days it takes a gripped hand before she leaves him, her hand ruffling his hair as he works - all manner of odd small things and she hardly knows why they all work as they do but it is enough to know  _ that _ they do. When he returns to her rooms, shaken and uncertain, it is simple enough to slide him a mug of coffee, black as pitch, and let him take a moment to warm himself by the fire and from the mug until he feels able to talk and share the contents of his reports. Irritating at times but simple. 

Still, even she doesn’t entirely know what to do when Percy comes stumbling into the lab she’s in, his trembling hand clutching his own bleeding, bitten neck.

* * *

“Percy,” she says. “You must calm yourself. This is hardly a fatal wound; you needn’t worry so much.” He trembles nonetheless as she holds the poultice to his neck and she sighs. “What has you so wound up? This is more than the bite.”

“It was something Father said.” Percy’s voice is quiet, muted. “The day before he died. He told me to survive.”

_ Ah. _ That rather explains it; nobles and their strange sense of duty, even to the dead. Helpful in this case as well. Percy hasn’t looked up from his clasped hands, his shoulders still shake and she lifts the compress she’s pressing to the bite on his neck to see how it’s doing.

“I will see that you do,” she says. “You know that, Percy.”

He shakes but it’s more a relieved tremble than one of fear.

“We’ll have to call for Yennen,” she says. “There’s herbal tonics to ensure this won’t get infected and he should have some in stock. Reynal would be better but-”

“They burned the Zenith,” Percy says, quiet but definite. “I know.”

“If I had known they meant to go after even him-”

“You couldn’t have.” Percy shakes his head. “I don’t- I know how secretive they are.” He looks up at her with a small sad smile. “Even you can’t save everyone.”

His faith in her is endearing and has become more evident with every day; she wonders a little how best to use it. He never doubts her which is helpful, never questions how it is she is so able to ensure his safety or why it is she might endeavour to. It seems, she thinks, as though he has long since come to the conclusion that she cares about him and is content to leave it at that. 

Still, he seeks reassurance. Seeks certainty that he can survive, just as his father wished. She has already promised to see him safe. She peels the poultice from his neck; the blood flow’s gone sluggish and started coagulating at last and she leaves it to breathe while sorting out a more lasting dressing. When she returns to Percy, he’s downcast again.

“If I could have prevented it,” she says, “I would have. I dislike needless death.” Percy barks an unhappy laugh at that and she raps his knuckles so he’ll stay still. “Torture is often ineffective; talking is much superior. But they would not talk to either of us and so-”

She does not expect Percy’s hand on hers, the sympathetic way he’s looking at her.

“I don’t blame you,” he says. “I know you did everything you could.”

* * *

She has long known how phenomenal the human mind can be at lying to itself. Cognitive dissonance can be worked with and worked around, people can be tricked and told that a candlelight is a Light cantrip and, told enough, will accept as cantriplight what was in truth the most feeble of rushlights. Ask the right leading questions and people can be led to doubt their own memories. Anna Ripley knows all of this very well.

Even she is impressed at how completely Percy has deluded himself and tricked himself that he can remain loyal to her. With how utter it is, she thinks, he might never be free. 

* * *

His lips are tentative when they first brush hers. When he pulls back there’s a look of momentary fear; he’s not sure what will happen now, if she’ll push him away for this, and Ripley is  _ sick _ of her favourite assistant being too shit-scared to move.

“Percy,” she says gently. His eyes dart as though he’d run. Her hand takes his wrist and it’s a moment’s work to kiss him back. The shade of terror in his eyes eases. The pitiful gratitude-admiration-adoration returns. He relaxes, all his tension gone. 

Good. They have work to do.

“Come along,” she says and tugs his wrist once before releasing.

He follows behind her, silent and obedient, and does the best day’s work she’s seen from him in weeks.

* * *

She lets him. She’s long used small touches of affection to tame his nerves, after all, it’s really no matter to let him kiss her or offer kisses in return if it keeps him working so well. He’s hardly ugly either, so it’s no chore, and the dedicated loyalty it inspires is more than worth it.

Percy becomes a dedicated assistant, an adoring student, a genius companion, all once more, and truly if all it takes is a few kisses to both bring that out and to keep him loyal then Ripley has no qualms about doing so. If it will ensure survival at so little cost then she will gladly pay it.

She doesn’t let him in public, though. Not where anyone might see. If the others learn how she is managing Percy it would be frustratingly easy to bring in doubt about her own loyalties, to question the value of his. What loyal servant needs a servant loyal to them before their shared masters, after all? What servant can be trusted if they care more for another than the one they are supposed to serve?

Love is a dangerous folly besides, and Percy’s right at the age where it becomes prevalent - the desire for it, the belief in it. She is lucky, she supposes, that most of the others are too dim to see the potential of one such as Percy, how useful it is to have so reliable a tool, but Ripley recognises in Anders the selfsame mercenary wisdom she herself possesses and she doesn’t care to lose any more of her freedom than she already has.

Percy flinches when she refuses him in public but he accepts it. She’s long trained his loyalty to her that he won’t defy her and that at least is a blessing in the time it takes to usher him away to deal with later. When Delilah Briarwood asks, Ripley admits only to a secret of Percy’s she’s known for years - one of the worst kept secrets in Whitestone, after all - that Percy is drawn to knowledge and with no one else to turn to admiration all too easily becomes adoration. 

Delilah finds it amusing.

Percy, she thinks, would not.

“Not in public,” she tells him in her office that evening. He’s sat a little dejected in his chair and she can hardly have that. His head lifts when she takes his hand in hers. “Percy. If others know they will try to use it against us. It will put us both at risk. Do you understand?”

He nods but begrudgingly. Internally she sighs and reminds herself that for all his intelligence, Percy is young. Few young men respond well to rejection.

So she leans forward and she kisses him.

He startles but that’s to be expected. She refused him earlier and by and large she’s let  _ him _ thus far and not much reciprocated, let alone instigated. After all, it wouldn’t do to encourage him too much. But, right now, he needs a little encouragement, some sign she shan’t abandon him.

When he finally kisses back she deepens it for just a moment before pulling away. His eyes are bright and hopeful.

“Percy,” she says again. “Do you understand?”

“I-” He pauses but the hope in his eyes remains. “I- yes, Anna.”

She smiles just a little. She can forgive him the use of her first name rather than last or title. She will forgive him rather a lot if it means his mind stays intact and he stays loyal.

“Good,” she says. “Now, off to bed. We’ve a long day’s work tomorrow.”

He leaves but the hope in his eyes remains.

* * *

Percy seems more confident after that, more reliable. When he starts to fear he glances to her and all it takes is the smallest of smiles for him to stand straighter, to face down whatever fears he has. He leans, still, into what fleeting affection she shows him, seems to take greater reassurance from it than before. 

She wonders a little, sometimes, what it is he must think for him to gain such greater confidence, jots out theories in a journal when he’s tending to the refineries. She needn’t have wondered in the end; Percy is young and naive and when she next pulls him into an embrace after some new frustrating fright, he tells her all she needs.

“I love you,” he whispers and Ripley recoils. 

_ “Never _ say that,” she says, when she regains herself. “Not where _ anyone _ might hear.”

“It is,” she tells him later, safe back in her office and not the too-exposed lab on the floor below, “Too great a risk.”

Love, Ripley thinks, is a dangerous folly, and while it’s useful to bind someone she can’t let anyone know how thoroughly infatuated Percy has become.

That is her tool and her tool alone to use.

She soothes Percy from that rejection, reminds him how careful they must be and gives him a kiss that lingers far longer than any they’ve shared before. When their lips part there is something hungry in his gaze - for affection, for safety, for whatever idea of  _ love _ has entered his head - and Ripley starts seriously considering how best to use it.

Ripley is not a woman to make promises she cannot keep, after all.

* * *

Some evenings there are kisses shared not out of an offered reward or a desire for approval but something else. Percy, she thinks, wants some measure of surety, some certain position, and while she’s not opposed to letting him become her lover, he’s going to have to  _ earn _ it.

Earn it he does.  _ Residuum _ production increases threefold and he finds a way to transform the ziggurat from base to top even if it won’t be completed for a while. He refines the ritual calculations as well, working late nights without prompting to identify the ideal time.

Three and a half years hence, they learn, at Winter’s Crest.

The Briarwoods are delighted. In the privacy of her rooms, Ripley is quite content to let Percy kiss her as much as he pleases.

He’s a genius mind after all and he’s loyal to her alone.

* * *

It’s only kisses that night, for all she’s little doubt Percy wants more. He’s easy to read, eager and inexperienced, but Ripley doesn’t much mind that. He’s loyal and adoring and it’ll be very easy to teach him precisely what she wants.

She’s no doubt he’ll be amenable, either, if it assures him the safety he so seeks.

Instead, she lets him stay - it’s not the first time he’s stayed overnight in her rooms, though then it was because nightmares had scared him to study and the best books were in her office. It’s hardly likely to be remarked upon. This night, for the first time, he sleeps curled against her side, his hands warm and careful on her skin, his lips pressed to her shoulder.

It’s not unpleasant.

* * *

The first time they truly sleep together Percy has recently turned twenty and Ripley has just learned that Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo lives.

She hasn’t told the Briarwoods. She will not tell Percy.

Instead she will bind him to her as strongly as she dares.

Magic, after all, is only so effective. Only lasts for so long. This moulding she has worked on Percival has been three years unhindered in its making. She thinks, by now, that he couldn’t turn on her even if he wished to.

His kisses start tentative but when she doesn’t so much as pull back the nervousness eases. He’s still uncertain but far from unwilling and it’s been years, now, in which she has taught him precisely what she likes. He sucks at her tongue, lets her bite his lip, gasps and groans in a most delightful way and Ripley doesn’t even have to nudge him.

“May I?” he asks.

“Of course,” she tells him.  _ You’re mine. _

Loyal assistant, adoring student, genius companion.  _ Obedient lover _ she knows can soon be added to the list.

He’s inexperienced and uncertain but he takes her guidance well. He wants to please after all and Ripley would rather prefer it if he did as well.

He  _ wants _ , too, something hungry in his gaze almost as dark and fierce as his desire for knowledge, and she is quite willing to oblige both. 

“No,” she says, guiding his fingers. “Like  _ this.” _ His fingers move, his eyes fixed on her face.  _ “Ah, _ yes.” There’s a pride to his face, a gladness at success, and for this she’ll let him have it.

He learns quickly, her Percival, and brings her almost to the brink before asking, again, “May I?”

So very polite. So eager to please.

She decides to let him try.

* * *

He falls asleep against her but not without a thorough success first. His face is nuzzled against her neck, almost needy for contact and company. She’ll let him, this time. She knows her studies of biology and physiology. Orgasms and shared sleeping both encourage bonding and Percy doesn’t yet know well enough to so much as guard himself.

He’s loyal like a duckling following in her wake already. Ripley wonders if, with this, he’ll be as helplessly adoring as a puppy.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments!


	6. Chapter 6

Something spooks Anna at Stilben and she won’t tell him what. When they’re safely ensconced in her chambers she doesn’t rush immediately to her desk - all the papers she might want to see already laid out - but instead embraces him with a force that surprises him. For someone who has never sought affection from him, who has simply accepted it when it is given, offered it when he has sought it and only occasionally actively given it for any reason else, the change is startling and when she pulls away he looks at her, worried.

There’s a wideness to her eyes and a worry and he doesn’t know what in the world but the Briarwoods might have scared her so. He knows better than to pry; Anna will tell him if he needs to know, will tell him  _ what _ he needs to know and he must trust in that. When she goes to the desk to read the papers her hand stays on his wrist, holding so tight as to bruise.

She lets him into her bed after Stilben as well and Percy cannot help but think that whatever has so spooked her must truly be a terrible thing if she is willing to risk their discovery for simple sake of comfort.

* * *

She lets him call her Anna. More nights than not he’s in her rooms, even if only half of them are in her bed. He doesn’t mind. The nearness is plenty, the look on her face when she emerges from her room to see him slumped at the desk, glasses half off his face, is more than he needs.

He comes to love the soft, “Oh, Percival,” she gives, looking down at him, and that she lets him lean into her touches to his cheek. She is warm and she is gentle and she is wise enough to keep them both safe.

He loves her inasmuch as he  _ can  _ love in a place ruled by the Briarwoods.

* * *

Some nights even curled against her he cannot sleep. Sometimes, nightmares wake him. He gets very good at waking without moving, without startling her awake. He knows she wouldn’t appreciate it for one and for two the idea of disturbing her sleep is simply something he wishes to avoid. She is peaceful in sleep, dark hair a vague shadow around her rather than pinned back into its bun, wisps escaping the plait she usually puts it in overnight, the usual frown on her brow eased away to relaxation.

Other nights some thing or other keeps him from sleep and so, inevitably, he rises. Anna rarely stirs after the first few nights he does this - this means, he thinks, that she trusts him. She knows him to be the furthest thing to a threat to her and when he moves she stays sleeping, undisturbed.

It makes some part of him terribly glad, that.

Most nights, when he’s sleepless, he turns to study. Reads journals and papers, tries to piece together other fragments of research to see if he can find anything to further help their studies. Other nights he fills the small metal kettle Ripley keeps on the lintel and brews himself some tea. Then he sits and reads and rereads what they’ve already worked on and concluded to see if there’s anything they’ve missed. The same words over and over - memorised as though by rote at this stage - are soothing and more often than not send him slinking back to Anna’s side in the small hours of the morning. He’s careful not to disturb her with the touch of cold hands and, sleeping, she turns to the warmth of his body readily. That’s another thing that makes him pleased on some indefinable level. That, despite the distance they keep most of the day, the truth is that she turns to him even in sleep. 

Other nights still he goes elsewhere. As the work on the ziggurat continues they take it in turns to stay in the tiny cot in the lab below and sometimes it’s a comfort to check on all the systems, the distillation and the process, before curling to sleep in a bed filled only with him. He usually wakes to Anna’s metal hand on his cheek, those mornings, her other hand holding his pad of notes. He loves those mornings second-most, he thinks, after waking beside her, because the look on her face as she asks him to explain what notes he’s made - curiosity, fascination, anticipation - are entirely because of him and his work. 

* * *

He’s less nervous than he was. Oh, he still is, plenty - he doesn’t like having to face the Briarwoods, though it's far easier with Anna nearby. Anna, he knows, will not see him hurt and as long as he’s useful the Briarwoods have no reason to.

He’s the one who calculated the ideal date for their ritual and who configured the current method they’re using to refine the entire ziggurat. He’s more than proven his worth and Anna trusts him enough to leave him in charge of it more days than not, when she wants to dabble in other experiments. He wishes sometimes that he could join her in those other studies but duty comes first. He’s a de Rolo, after all. Duty was always meant to come first.

Some days are harder than others, some tasks more boring and sometimes the Briarwoods walk past the lab while he’s checking over the process, topping up the acid, hauling the  _ residuum _ out for the workers to take. It sets his teeth on edge but he can’t do anything about it. Sometimes they stand there and watch. Watching back never makes them go away. Sometimes they leave on their own, sometimes only when Anna arrives. The best days they aren’t there at all and Anna comes down a few hours later, two mugs of coffee in one hand and a notebook of her experiments in the other while she double-checks all of his work.

He’s never yet made a mistake and they both know it but there’s something satisfying all the same to see the pleased smile she gives to find everything in order. 

* * *

“Going well?” she asks. Percy steps back and gestures for her to check, taking the proffered coffee gladly. 

“Should be,” he says, drinking gratefully. “The acid is topped up and when I went to check on the ziggurat I found another crevice we hadn’t covered yet. At this rate we should be ahead of schedule by at least a month.”

Anna walks around the coils of glass and metal, tapping bubbles out of a tube and making sure the levels are correct. They are. Percy’s very exact about these things. 

When she turns to him, it’s with a smile. “Excellent,” she says. “Excellent.”

For a moment there’s silence. Quiet. It’s comfortable, with just the noise of the acid bubbling over the whitestone and ringing softly against the copper containing it. 

“Anna?” he asks, finally, when he’s down to the dregs. There’s a few grounds in the bottom of the mug - always is when Anna pours it because she’s usually in too much of a hurry to study to pour carefully enough to avoid it. The sight of them sends a surge of fondness through him. “What- when all of this is done. What will we do then?”

She seems surprised that he’d ask - or perhaps surprised that he’d be so direct about it. He doesn’t usually question much, really, simply trusting her to keep them safe. She’s succeeded this long. Still, he thinks, she can’t be so terribly surprised. Once, long ago, before all of this, she’d said he had the potential to be brilliant. She can’t think he’d be unaware that this process has to have an endpoint. After all, he’d been the one to pin it down.

“A good question,” she says finally, after mulling over her words. “Simply put, I don’t know. If the Briarwoods wish to retain our services, we may be tasked to continue the whitestone refinement or otherwise serve them and the rest of the Whispered One’s cult. If not… I don’t know what will happen or what we will do.”

Unspoken is the promise she’s kept faithfully so long: to keep them safe, to ensure their survival. It’s clear in the determination in her gaze. At this point, he doesn’t question it. She’d saved his life, she’d kept him safe. In many ways she’s all he has and all he needs. Anna Ripley has never yet failed him and so he has never yet failed her. 

He sighs a little as she steps over to where he’s leaning against a counter. Her hand is gentle on his shoulder and metal fingers run in well-practiced soothing lines, firm through the fabric of his shirt. It’s long ease that leads to him taking her empty mug to set it down beside them, to interweave his fingers with hers, her metal hand still steady on his shoulder. 

“I just wish we knew,” he says to her, running his thumb over the acid-smoothed pads of her fingers. “I- I dislike not knowing.”

Anna’s expression this time is far more certain and far more reassuring for it. “You’ll see in time, dear,” she says. Her metal thumb smooths over his cheek and he leans into her touch as readily as he does the rare endearment. “That I  _ can  _ promise.”

* * *

He wishes, sometimes, that she cared for art. She doesn’t and that’s fine. She taught him mathematics and the sciences, after all, with occasional dabbles into history and alchemy; art was never even on the list. Sketching, as far as Anna Ripley is concerned, is solely of use for illustrating specimens and ensuring diagrams are accurate. What sketches she does are simple and utilitarian in form, just the barest shape required to convey information. She tuts sometimes at the effort Percy puts into his, ensuring as much detail as possible, but Percy really doesn’t know how to do otherwise. Detail is important, after all. 

He still sketches just for fun. He shouldn’t really. Anna doesn’t care for it, it serves no purpose and he has to be useful really but he thinks, by now, that he’s proven his utility to the Briarwoods well enough and is enough a fixture at Anna’s side and in Anna’s bed that she’s not going to let him just be taken away. So long as he keeps up his other duties there’s no reason for him not to. He’s even done what he can to make some of his sketches useful: diagrams of local flowers he knows to have alchemical uses, of animal behaviour through the seasons to aid with the local ecological study she used to dabble in. 

There’s also a rather large number of sketches of Anna herself that he has no intention of showing anyone. 

* * *

He’s sat on the floor one evening when she comes back to her rooms, half-a-hundred papers spread out on the floor around him. He’d started at the desk but the situation had rapidly become untenable so now he leans against the side of Anna’s favoured wingback, poring over all the notes he can. 

“Ongoing theory?” she asks, picking her way across the floor to her chair. He’d been careful to leave a path, though it’s narrow, and careful to make sure she can see all he might want to point out from her chair. It’s not the first time he’s done this after all, though she always seems quietly amused at his willingness to crawl around on hands and knees when desks prove insufficient.

“Mm,” he says, leaning back against the side of the chair, essential paper in hand. “Here,” he says, handing it to her. “You’ll spot the question.”

She does with her usual rapidity and the paper is set on her knee as she scans the papers arrayed on the floor to answer it.

“It’s not complete yet,” he admits. “But it’s most of the way there. I thought you might enjoy it.”

Her hand reaches to touch his head as he falls silent, her fingers soft in his hair. When he looks up at her, her eyes are bright, mouth slightly open in excitement and anticipation. Her gaze is darting, pulling disparate threads together, constructing a question on the fly, the likely conclusions, the tests that might just prove it, the whole experimental framework to bring the question to bear. When she finally leans back in her chair she looks pleased in a way he’s rarely seen her.

“Well  _ done,” _ she says appreciatively. Percy cannot help his smile. Her hand is still in his hair, fingers gentle on his scalp and he leans into the affection readily. “That’s delightful,” she says. “It will take us  _ days. _ Well  _ done, _ Percy.”

He says, “Thank you,” as her hand trails down to stroke his cheek. He’s still sat on the floor but he doesn’t mind it. It feels fitting to look up at her like this, to rest his head a little on her knee. 

“Clever boy,” she says and her thumb strokes his mouth. It’s a moment’s work to kiss it. The  _ mm _ she gives is a pleased hum and he kisses her fingers again. The cloth of her skirt is rough against his cheek but he really doesn’t mind it right now when she looks so very satisfied with science all due to him. His hand finds the buckle of her boot, his eyes meet hers.

“May I?” he asks.

For a long languid moment she considers. A moment of Percy’s fingers pricking around the buckle edge, his lips kissing her fingers with every breath. 

Her head dips. Her gaze, fixed on him, does not. “You may,” she says and he almost wishes to rise and kiss her. But then, that’s not what he planned when he spent the afternoon finding a project for her.

Anna’s boots are buckled and buttoned but even clumsy fingers can undo them. The long socks she wears - Whitestone is too chilly, really, for stockings except in summer and Anna has always cared more about practicality than beauty besides - are easy to peel down and her legs open before him as he kisses his way up her calves. Anna’s hand goes back to his hair, softly stroking, and he’s always been a little grateful that she’s never worried at the white his hair has gone. 

When he reaches the side of her knee his fingers have joined his lips. He hasn’t had to move the folds of skirt; her metal hand has readily eased his way up her legs. His fingers gently stroke the soft skin at the back of her knee as his lips make their way up her thigh. There’s no burns or scars to the skin here - unlike her hands - but it’s Anna Ripley without a doubt. He recognises the way her skin tremors as his kisses reach her inner thigh, the softest, most sensitive skin of her legs. 

Anna’s never been one for lace or silk. Simple practical sense has been the order of her day and her wardrobe. His fingers go ahead of his lips, creeping under the edges. He doesn’t have to ask in words this time, just pause for the barest moment before her fingers remove the garment herself. He’s only done this for her a very few times before but he knows now what she likes, what she wants, how to please her and what every tremble and tremor of her skin means. He pauses kissing just a moment, lets his fingers follow the patterns she taught him long enough to look at her face. The satisfaction from earlier is there and a deep heavy-lidded pleasure. She lifts her hips to his fingers and he presses his face again to her thigh.

_ I love you, _ he thinks. As long as he’s forbidden from saying it, he shows it in every way he can.  _ One day, _ he thinks, running his tongue over her skin, feeling her gasp and shudder in pleasure beneath his hands.  _ One day, we’ll be safe and I can tell you until you’re sick of hearing it. _

“Percival.” Her voice is throaty, satisfied and yet wanting, almost a warning around his name.

His lips lift from her skin. “Anna,” he says and only she hears the question of it as his fingers continue their pattern.

Her hips twist, small gasps escape her and when she next says, “Percival,” there’s a commanding tone he knows well and delights in. Her hand is firm on the back of his head as he dips his lips to her skin once more.

* * *

They go again in bed with far less planning. Anna’s skin, it seems, is still hypersensitive after his ministrations and when he presses his face to her shoulder and kisses her neck she trembles in a way he recognises. Sometimes she’s content to sleep but this evening she gets a look on her face, pleased and almost indulgent as she says, “Oh, all right then.”

He has to be careful when she’s as sensitive to touch as this but he knows her well, knows the cues of her body, knows how to rock his hips to hers to prolong the pleasure without making it so overwhelming as to defeat the point. Instead they tremble to satisfied stillness together, Percy’s lips gentle against her pulse.

_ Love you, _ he thinks, as he drifts to sleep, her hand gentle on the small of his back.  _ With all my heart. _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, Cass is having a time of it.

They’re odd. They’re so terribly odd but they’re  _ kind _ and they don’t question too much - not how she ended up in the cell, not why she’s happy to keep on travelling with them long after her debt to them is paid, not even how old she is, though she suspects the twins have guessed she’s younger than them all. They watch her back in combat and make sure she doesn’t get swindled in towns and when they’re faced with a dick of an elf who so clearly looks down on so many of the group Cassandra pulls herself tall, looks down her nose at him, and rattles off her full name with an ease and certainty she’d almost forgotten she possessed.

“Damn, Cass,” Vax says, when they leave that particular individual gaping behind them, a chunk of gold and a resolution to their current debts richer. “I hope you don’t expect us to remember all that.”

No. She wouldn’t expect it of them. But if she is the last of her family, she owes it to them to remember for all their sakes.

* * *

Things settle into a kind of normal. The group is welcoming: that helps. Keyleth is friendly, Grog and Pike too. Scanlan’s jokes remind her of the ones she heard from the guards when she snuck through tunnels and they thought no one was around to hear, Tiberius of Percy at his stuffiest, when he’d spend hours with his nose in a book, only pausing to expound on whatever dull thing he found newly fascinating. The twins are often quiet, keeping to themselves but open up slowly as Cass does, settling in. As they loosen up, integrate more instead of standing alone and relying on each other first… it’s strange.

Cass is used to many people, used to a home that, while huge, was full of people as well. She is  _ used _ to family, used to familiar presences and with this group, with the twins as an anchoring, existing familial bond it almost at times feels homely for all they’re so often on the move.

Perhaps she has been alone too long, perhaps it is just that she misses her family more than she knows what to do with but at times, when they all gather together - after killing the nightmare, after fighting the iron golem, after the match Grimthorne set them - it feels almost familiar. The more time she spends with them, the easier it is to see facets of the family she’s lost in these people instead.

* * *

Skysunder is- 

A white dragon, screaming in the winds and the chaos and the storm of ice, magic jetting outwards and a breath so cold it almost freezes them solid.

Skysunder is terrifying, for all she’s supposedly weakened, for all her human form had been almost emaciated, clearly exhausted. The  _ dragon, _ huge and pale with a crest of icy spikes, is terrifying and when Pike’s mace takes out the beast’s elbow, sending it stumbling forward and down, as Pike’s mace strikes again, caving in the vast skull, Cassandra can feel nothing but relief. 

She rushes to Pike then, daggers sheathed away so she has her hands free to scoop up the tiny cleric, wrap her in an embrace and spin her once around before setting her down.

“All right, Ducky?” Vax asks when he catches up, clapping Cass on the shoulder before wrapping an arm around Vex, an arm around Keyleth, expressive in success. 

“Relieved,” she says and looks back down to Pike. “You could have  _ died, _ getting that close.”

“Not any time soon,” Pike says, patting her elbow. “Don’t you worry about me.”

She appreciates the reassurance, she really does, but she has seen too many she loves die horrible deaths. She doesn’t know what she’d do if she lost these people too. She doesn’t dare to contemplate it. Instead, she joins the others as they start hauling gold out of the icy cavern, as they butcher the dragon for parts, and tries to bury her worries, at least for now.

* * *

They’re off to Emon almost as soon as they get back to Westruun from the Frostfell. Cass would be frustrated, worried, annoyed by the constant movement, the way they’re being jerked here-there-and-everywhere but presently she’s much more annoyed by whatever organisation would try to frame Ryndarien who helped them save Grog, by whatever group would force their brand of allegiance to be etched forever into the skin of Vax’s back.

There are, she thinks -  _ knows, _ really -, far too many people in the world with no heart of goodwill or kindness to them, who think only of themselves.

She rather thinks she hates every last one of them.

* * *

It’s a late night watch on the road to Emon she finally asks about Vax’s strange nickname for her. It’s long gone quiet: Trinket snurfles in his sleep, Tiberius occasionally huffs out steam and as ever Grog snores but other than the sound of the crackling fire, it’s almost silent. Cass cradles a cup of Keyleth’s herbal tea in her hands and thinks.

She’s had opportunities to leave. She could have left after the nightmare, after the golem, after  _ Skysunder, _ but each time after they’ve been so rapidly pulled in some new direction and she’s been loath to leave them. She’s circled off at times, when things get too much - when Tiberius or Grog get too loud, when Vax’s behaviour reminds her too much of Julius’ sense of humour, when Keyleth’s soft kindness is too close to Whitney’s.

She circles off, gets some space, but she always circles back. The familiarity is as much a boon as a bane, as much a comfort as a cruelty and she finds herself seeking it for all the sad memories that follow. There is something comforting to them all, to Keyleth’s kindness and Tiberius’ bluster, to Scanlan’s jokes and Vax’s affectionate nicknames. She just wishes she knew better what to do with it, how better to show them she cares just as much back.

“Ducky?” Vax’s voice is concerned and when she glances up he’s frowning at her. “You all right?”

“Fine,” she says. He sighs and his frown eases but it doesn’t go entirely. For a while it’s quiet, almost awkwardly so, and Cass decides, perhaps against her better judgement, to break the silence if only to try to ease it. “Vax?” she asks. “Why... the nickname. I can guess how you came up with Pickle for Pike or Kiki for Keyleth but why-”

“Ducky?” he says and grins. “You duck your head sometimes if we talk to you when you don’t expect it.” He mimics the motion, a little headbob, face falling forward so hair slips in front to hide the face. “It’s like you want to duck out of notice. Sometimes you duck out of conversations too - go for walks or watch from a corner. I figured it’s your way of getting space; you’re not the most social.”

That’s… she’d have expected Vex to notice that, sharp-eyed as she is, or maybe Keyleth. Not Vax.

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” he adds with a shrug. “I mean I’ll stop using it if you don’t like it but uh- honestly, it reminds me a little of myself when I was younger. I used to do the same thing when I was little.”

“Oh.”

Vax frowns - not the same concern as before, a milder worry.  _ “Is _ it okay?” he asks. “I mean, if you don’t like it-”

“No,” she says quickly. “No, it’s fine.” She pauses, swallows. “It reminds me of one of my brothers,” she says softly. “Julius. He used to give out nicknames too.” She can’t help the small fond smile she gives. “He used to call me  _ brat.” _

* * *

Sometimes she wished it was easier to forget. To forget family, to forget the horror, to forget home. She can hardly remember half the things that used to make her laugh before; why should she have to remember the terrible when she can scarcely recall the happy?

But she remembers, much as she might wish otherwise.

At some point, she knows, she has to go home. She cannot leave all that happened as all there is. Cannot leave her family dead and unavenged, cannot leave Whitestone in the hands of flagrant, eager murderers and those who chose to help them. She has to go home.

The idea is terrifying.

* * *

Emon is huge, huger than Whitestone, huger even than Westruun, and it’s busy in a way Cass isn’t at all used to, a way that’s almost frightening, and she finds herself ducking behind Vax without even thinking about it. 

He chuckles but he doesn’t tell her not to.

The first day is mostly like that, finding their way around, the noise and bustle louder and greater than most any of them are used to. Cass is not the only one to withdraw behind the shield of the others - even unflappable Vex takes a moment to pause, her hands buried in Trinket’s fur.

Still, though. They have a job to do, an investigation to enact. And not a one of them likes the hints they’ve been picking up as they ask their way through town - political intrigue is never promising. 

Cass, admittedly has only a little knowledge of it and mostly second hand at that, stories from Julius and Vesper of what some courtiers would try, the alliances they’d strike to try to pull Father’s rulings this way or that, to involve other families from elsewhere, to try to pull the Sovereign’s eye to Whitestone, always well-managed. 

She doesn’t know what to do with the idea that someone may be trying to usurp the Sovereign’s own will.

* * *

The discovery of Krieg, even after all else with the Clasp, with Gregory Fince and running into the twins’ father, with the failure to find anything much out about what is affecting the Sovereign - this, Cass thinks, might just be their breaking point.

Krieg - Krieg who they’d gone to for help, Krieg who saved the Sovereign’s life, Krieg of the  _ Council of Tal’Dorei _ is a dragon, huge and blue, belching lightning at them in the cavern hidden at the other end of a secret portal in an almost empty house.

Chromatics are near-uniformly evil. For all his apparent kindness, for all his seeming charm, they cannot trust Krieg, cannot trust a word he ever  _ said, _ and they launch into battle without a question or a doubt.

* * *

They pile bloodied onto the transportation circle, the spellwork hums as Tiberius activates it, and they narrowly escape the cascading stone caused by Krieg’s death spasms as they’re sent back by magic to the man’s- the  _ dragon’s _ \- house.

“Well,” Grog says. “We’re rich now.”

“Grog,” Vex says hoarsely. “The head of Emon’s military was a dragon. And now he’s  _ dead.” _

They walk, in silence out of Krieg’s home, bloodied and battered, beaten and exhausted and with no idea what to do next. Cass knows there’s much to do. If General Krieg was a chromatic dragon, who knows who else might be. If there are demons in the palace, if demons attacked Allura, there is a threat here that they have to face. If someone is suborning the Sovereign’s will  _ something _ must be done and she tucks away all her terror, all her hate and tries to plan as they step, blinking into the sunlight.

None of them expect Allura, alive and running and calling their names after the ruin they found of her home but they’re glad of it all the same.

* * *

“What- what can we do?” It’s Keyleth who asked, shaken and scared, clinging to her staff where she stands beside Tiberius. “Demons, dragons- what can  _ we _ do?”

“What we have to,” Vax says simply. “If we don’t, who will?”

Allura can get them in. With her magic and her political clout she steers them through the Cloudtop, into the palace, but she cannot go further as guards close in. They clasp her hands in fleeting thanks before heading on without her. Cass finds the terror she feels and, as she had when she crept through the tunnels of Whitestone, she forces it back.

* * *

The palace is a maze, larger and more sprawling than Whitestone ever was but, in the fundamentals, it’s layout is not unalike to it. Receiving rooms and guest chambers, studies and libraries, throne room well-guarded but accessible, as all rooms in every noble home ever are, by small and sneaky servant’s passages, meant to keep those below notice out of sight. 

It’s familiar enough that Cass, fear shoved back lest it break her, can steer them through.

Sovereign Uriel is unmoving on his throne, head tilted forward in exhaustion as Empress Salda whispers in his ear, their children gathered close. Cass does not have to tell them how it’s all wrong for any ruler - they all can see. They hardly need Pike’s Detect Evil and Good for confirmation.

“Well,” Tiberius says, in a whisper not half so hushed as he seems to think it is. “What now?”

As one, the Empress and her children turn to look at them. The Sovereign remains unmoved, unnaturally still in the darkened room but it hardly matters as Salda stands, something like smoke and shadow seeping from her edges, as her children array before her, much the same. 

As Cass and Vax dart forwards, knives out, as Grog roars and follows suit, shadowy claws dart out at each of them.

It’s not a quick fight. The shadow-things seem loath to leave the bodies they hold and they don’t dare to force them out by killing the royal family. It takes Pike, small and determined, hands glowing gold with spellwork, to force each shadow from the Empress and her children and as they each fall limp Grog hauls them to the door, Uriel and Salda, the three children all at once.

The shadows, huge and snarling in the darkened space, loom tall.

Vex’s arrows tear holes in the coverings that keep daylight out, the glassy dome above revealed as each one tears through. Where her arrows cannot reach, Keyleth’s spellwork can, Daylight spelled up with magic that glows as bright as Pike’s ever has and even as the shadows stretch forwards, trying to do yet more damage, the light forces them into smaller forms, seems to blind their faces and with a final blow of Grog’s axe the last shatters to little more than smoke across the floor.

But despite their efforts, that’s not the end of it.

* * *

“There is more going on here than you realise,” the creature says, vast and red skinned as it stares down at them. “Evil I may be but I am far from the only evil present - or the most dangerous.”

Cass doesn’t trust it one jot as it stares down at them, great tombstone teeth in it’s jaw as it smiles as condescendingly as it sounds. 

They strike a deal, they regret a deal, they Wish themselves out of the deal.

And it’s not enough.

* * *

This is not the first time Cass has seen a grand royal hall bathed in blood. Not the first time she has heard those she cares about cry out in pain. Not the first time a supposed ally has become an enemy. She hates every inch of it nonetheless.

* * *

Pike dies and suddenly all of Cass’ hard won equilibrium is thrown into doubt.

She has lost family before. She lost them all, every last one. She knows that loss and knows she can survive it because she  _ has. _

But though she’d feared it, feared losing one of her new-made family with all the dangers they so often faced, she’d never truly expected the day she actually  _ would.  _

Pike’s body crashes into the ground, two torn apart pieces and Cassandra _ sobs, _ cannot help it, sound torn from her throat just as Grog’s bellow is his, just as Keyleth’s scream and Vex’s yell of denial are theirs, and she looks away before the memories can spiral too far out of control.

She knows what the memories of dead loved ones are like. She knows how they stick with you. She cannot forget her own, branded as they are to the back of her eyelids. She cannot bear for Pike to be added to them all.

She grips her knives tighter, finds what last remaining tethers to focus she has and when Juurezel pauses, glorying in his kill and their despair, she gathers up all the hate and anger she ever felt for Ripley and points it at the target right in front of her.

* * *

She cannot look at Pike’s body as they rush to the temple. Pike’s two halves are held in Grog’s trembling arms but Cass cannot look, cannot make herself, memories and tears burning behind her lids.

She remembers how Mother had looked, in the cells, at the end. Remembers Vesper. Remembers Whitney. Dark hair splayed back, pale skin bloodied, bright eyes gone blank. 

She cannot bear memories of Pike like that too.

* * *

“You’re my  _ friend,” _ Grog says. “My  _ best friend.”  _ There are tears as large as marbles rolling down his cheeks and his voice trembles as he sings an old lullaby out, one Cass knows that Pike has used before when healing.

Vax sets down Pike’s amulet, Sarenrae’s symbol making a soft  _ clink _ against her breastplate, metal against metal.

“We need you,” he says and his voice is raw. “You keep us on the straight and narrow. Sarenrae, if you’re up there - she has so much left to do down here. Please.  _ Give her back.” _

Scanlan is silent. No songs, no jokes, no attempt to flirt. When he withdraws his hand from his pocket he doesn’t take out his flute or his shawm or his whistle. 

He takes a statue, perfectly carved of Pike, and sets it by her bloodied cheek.

“I know you think I’m joking,” he says. “I joke a lot. But I’m not.”

And he sings, then, not a dirge nor a lovesong nor a plea but something warm and uplifting, something hopeful, one of Pike’s favourite hymns to her goddess. Scanlan sings it with all the sincerity he usually lacks.

The priest’s magic shines, golden as Sarenrae’s magic ever has in Pike’s hands, milky-soft at the edges, warm as a hearthfire and as comforting and as the glow finally fades…

Pike breathes.

Cassandra doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or be sick.

* * *

Somehow, despite the hell-ride of the last few hours, of the fights, of the twists and turns of whatever hellish thing has been going on behind the scenes in Emon, they are not done yet. Pike sleeps yet, her dark hair bleached pale, and Cass reaches unthinkingly for the streaks of white in her own but they are not done.

Allura finds them, out of breath, at the temple.

“Uriel’s alive,” she says. “He woke up just after you left. But the others- the children-  _ Salda-” _

* * *

Allura kneels by Salda’s side, face pale. From what they’ve heard from Allura, she and the Empress are close friends, dear friends, have been friends for a good long time. The concern on Allura’s face reminds Cassandra of Vesper’s when Cousin Madeleine had been sick, of Mother’s when their grandmother started fading. 

Uriel sits by his children, face haggard, still tired but he’s alive and he’s moving and the cleric at his side has made no motion to make him move away or get some rest. 

“You,” the Sovereign says as they pool in the doorway. “You- you saved us. Do you- do you know what this is?”

“No,” Tiberius says. “I apologise, your majesty. This is beyond my knowledge.”

The silence then is dreadful. 

“Beyond any one of us,” Keyleth says. “But perhaps not beyond us all. Do we know what’s causing this?”

“They have no souls,” the cleric says. “Their bodies live but without souls...”

“Nothing truly lives.” Cass nods because they just brought Pike back from death and even if they may never bring another back from that, these bodies aren’t dead yet. As long as there is life there is hope and Cassandra has seen too much to let go of what little hope she has. “Do we know what could remove a soul like this?”

“There’s spells,” Allura says. “But they usually require a receptacle. An enchanted jar or prepared gemstone most commonly.”

“Wait,” Vex says, turning and reaching into the Bag at Grog’s hip. “Like these?”

In her hand is one of the orbs they’d taken from the Clasp and Allura’s face lights up.

* * *

“For all you have done-” Uriel says, days later when he calls them before him. He looks better, his family healthier around him and he looks at them from across a table, not down from a throne. “For myself, for my family, for all Emon, though you do not come from here- we owe you eternal thanks.”

Half the party shuffles awkwardly. Half the party stands tall as is proper. 

“In gratitude,” he continues. “I would like to offer you all a place on the Tal’Dorei Council. Not only does Allura, who’s judgement we trust, speak highly of you all but you identified a number of interconnected problems and resolved them at a time when my own Council was hamstrung by their formal positions both on the Council and with regards to other roles in the city. We hope, by giving you the standing of the Council but the freedom to act as you already have, you will guard us further against such problems. Do you accept?”

For a moment they are all quiet, reeling in the face of it, and when Cass glances to the others she sees that none of them know where to start.

“We do,” she says. “And we thank you for the honour, your majesty.”

He waves a hand, the casual dismissal of thanks a ruler does not think are necessary and speaks again. “Further, due to the disruption of the Winter’s Crest festivals in Westruun due to the dragon and in Emon due to an assassination attempt, a dragon and these demons, we plan to fund new ones, both here and in Westruun. Additionally, as part of the festival, we wish to show you the true honour you deserve for all you have done. Not only praising you as heroes but also to formally announce, if you should accept, the construction of a keep on the outskirts of Emon, that you may forever have a place to stay here as accompaniment to your new roles on the Council.”

At that, even Cass is so gobsmacked as to have no idea what to say.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! If so please leave a comment!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Percy has to deal with intrigue... that he has no idea is playing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes before we dive in! Firstly - this chapter is a beast at 18k. Before this chapter was posted this fic was at 19k - this chapter almost doubles the wordcount on it's own. Be warned!
> 
> Secondly, the penultimate scene of this chapter has some relatively explicit smut - not enough I feel a need to increase the rating but not as easily glossed over as prior chapters. As this may not be to everyone's taste, if you should wish to skip it you'll find it starts with the paragraph starting _"Anna’s hands find his hips"_ and ends at _"Her hand is still soft in his hair as he comes back to himself"._

Some nights, even after exhausting both himself and Anna, he somehow cannot find his way to sleep. She’s curled contentedly against him, metal fingers light against his side and his cheek pressed to the skin just above her collarbone. When he moves his head, presses his lips to her skin in a kiss, she makes a small pleased noise before settling back to sleep. He can’t stay put, he knows. If he stays he will drive himself mad with boredom and he’d rather at least serve some purpose. 

Gently he finds Anna’s metal fingers and interweaves them with his own for the moment it takes to slip out of bed. She makes a disgruntled noise but doesn’t otherwise stir as he tucks the blanket back around her shoulders. With one hand he strokes her hair back from her face and leans in to press a fleeting kiss to her cheek.

He finds his glasses, pulls some clothes on, and makes sure to leave a note on the desk to let her know he’s in the lower workshop.

There’s lots to do in the workshop no matter the hour and he’s glad of that as he walks. There’s the whitestone of course and Anna’s experiments into alchemy for as long as they have so many types of acid to hand. It’s useful for refining after all and for breaking things down into component parts. Break enough things down, perhaps, and you can create anything from their ashes. Percy’s not sure how true the theory is but he’s willing to at least see what comes of it.

He’s not fond of wandering Whitestone in the dark but he has one surety at least: the Briarwoods won’t be walking the halls to cause him trouble. As the ziggurat nears completion they’re drawn away more and more often, making alliances and Charming officials to ensure no interruptions as their plan proceeds apace. With whatever they were doing high atop its bulk completed, with them so often gone from the castle, Anna has given him back the freedom to go where he wills without her company.

He’s glad of it, to be honest, the freedom in part but also the fleeting safety from the Briarwoods. The way Sylas Briarwood has eyed each of their necks unnerves him and he’d rather stay far away from those eyes and those teeth. 

The halls are long and dark but the windows are wide and open and for all the clouds in the day it seems they’ve become sparse in the night. The moon outside is full and it strikes Percy then, why it is he couldn’t sleep. The moon pulls it all together, slots into the uneven calendar in his head and he stops dead in the middle of the hallway.

This dawn will be the fourth year to the day that the last of his family died.

* * *

His hands shake as he starts his work. There’s plenty to do - there always is - but with the memories of his family, of those he loved and failed to save, ringing ‘round his head it is hard to quiet that tumult. For once his hands do not itch for acid and alchemy though they’ve been useful tools to soothe his anxious, unrestful mind every time before. This time, if anything, feels far different.

He’s methodical in the workshop, for all his shaking hands. He checks the levels of acid in the vats, checks the shards of surplus _residuum_ they save for trade, checks the powdered whitestone they turn to a sickly green slurry and feed deep into the ziggurat and makes a note that they need more. He checks the outflow pipes, drains one of mostly-used acid and forces a clog out, then sits for a quarter hour wrestling with bandages to wrap his acid-burned wrist one-handed.

But, tasks done, his grieving mind pulls him to a purpose never permitted and never encouraged.

From his hidden safe - hidden even from Anna so, should worse come to worst, she has honest innocence to protect her - he pulls black powder, blueprints, bags of already-made lead shot and six small ingots of radiant-enchanted metal.

There was more reason than just repairing copper pipes he’d asked for a forge down here and he is grateful for it now.

* * *

The pieces are hot to touch as he pries them out and cleans them up but they shimmer-sheen with a soft gold light and even as they cool off in water there’s a soft warmth to them like the winter sun through a window - mild but there. They’re perfect, he thinks, perfectly made, exactly as he has dreamed and drawn and planned, and he itches to piece it all together now, to put together the mechanism and see if it might work. 

He almost does, that night, with the pieces all arrayed out before him but he restrains himself. He has already gone too far from what Anna permits; a private experiment is one thing but such a thing as this, a thing which might just place them both at risk - it is not something she would ever permit him.

It is, he thinks, not something he would _want_ permitted, if it puts at risk the life of the one who has, so many fearful times, _saved_ him.

Instead, that restless night, he rolls shot down the barrels to ensure he _can_ and then, with care, he sets each piece away, neatly into the safe and tries to find some brief moment of rest before dawn comes and Anna wakes him.

* * *

“I do wonder about you, Percival.”

It’s an unfamiliar voice that stirs Percy from his work - not Anna, the Briarwoods, Stonefell or Yennen - and so he doesn’t turn to attend it immediately. Instead he finishes measuring the runoff and testing its acidity, setting everything away and his notebook down before turning.

In the doorway stands Professor Anders.

Percy knows only a little of the man and that little hardly good. He knows Anna dislikes and distrusts Anders which has given him ready cause to avoid the man, and he knows Anders is a seeker and keeper of information, ferreting out secrets and making connections, and he knows that it was Anders’ letters on the Briarwoods’ behalf that had won the Briarwoods entry to Whitestone. 

Percy’s spine prickles with something other than fear or terror.

Anders is still standing there, leaning casually against the doorframe, a fine dagger balanced between his fingertips. His eyes haven’t moved, still fixed on Percy and his notes but he hasn’t said anything else.

“Can I help you, Professor?” He keeps his voice even, calm, clear. “I can’t think what with; Anna knows far more than I when it comes to most of this, let alone most else.” He gestures at the refinery that fills the room.

Anders hums, pushing off from the doorframe to step inside and gesturing with his dagger. The move doesn’t suit him; threats are more Stonefell’s forte than the Professor’s.

“That, for one,” he says. His voice takes a nigh-mocking note. _“‘Anna’._ You know, no one else calls her that except Delilah? And even then she does it to wind her up.”

“Well,” Percy says with a smile and a self-deprecating shrug. “I’ve known her longer than most of you, I suspect. And she knows I mean no disrespect.”

“No,” Anders says. “No, if anything the two of you are quite comfortably familiar, are you not?”

Percy frowns; this is blatant fishing, even more so than anything the Briarwoods have pried at but then, that is Anders’ job. Percy simply thought he’d be more subtle than this.

“I suppose?” Anders lifts an eyebrow, Percy shrugs again. “As I said, I’ve known her for years. I’ve worked with her for years and quite closely at that. She saved my life. If we seem familiar, that’s why.”

Anders hums but seems to go silent. Percy really doesn’t know what he’s doing here; Percy’s never done anything to cast doubt on his position, nothing to suggest he can’t be trusted. He’d never waste all the effort Anna’s put into seeing him safe like that. He doesn’t know what he’s done to be in Anders’ sights and, frankly, it scares him. Percy draws a breath, pulls himself tall and returns to work. There’s not much left to do, only a few other experiments to check on, a few levels to adjust but Percy’s very good at taking his time when he needs to, be it to avoid sleeplessness and terrible dreams or to avoid _this._

“Is it hard to work with her?” Anders is still standing by the same wall; even without looking up Percy can tell he hasn’t moved. “Doctor Ripley? She’s pretty abrasive at times.”

“...I- no?” He pauses, collects himself. Tries not to let his utter puzzlement show. “No. I’ve worked with her for years, even when she was my tutor. Whyever would it be hard to work with her?”

“You know.” Anders twists the knife between his fingers, gestures briefly with the blade. “Given what she’s done.”

Percy stares at him, confused. “I- I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re referring to. She’s kept me alive and she’s given me no reason to distrust her. I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“Hm.” Anders says nothing more, simply watching from where he stands against the wall and… it’s odd and it’s unsettling, as unsettling as when the Briarwoods come by to watch and it makes Percy’s skin crawl. Anders stands and he watches and Percy resumes work in the hope that if he’s ignored, he’ll leave him be.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asks, a little frustrated when he’s finished all of his checks and Anders still hasn’t gone. He can’t exactly continue to work with nothing to do for all he’s good at pretending seemingly-useful busywork. He strongly suspects Anders is sharp enough to notice and if he’s questioning him, if he’s suspecting Anna in some way, he can’t make it seem as though they’ve not enough work. That leaves one of them surplus to requirements and Percy does not wish to know what might happen then. Anders is still watching. “Truly,” Percy says. “If there’s something I can help you with, I’m happy to. I don’t know what you mean by these questions but if there’s something you need…?”

“Mostly I’m curious,” Anders says. At some point during this all he’s sheathed his knife. Percy’s not entirely sure the lack of overt threat makes him any the less threatening. “You know. You and Ripley, you’ve been so caught up in all these experiments. It must be nice it’ll soon be coming to an end.”

That is _definitely_ fishing and Percy eyes him. “I- suppose,” he says hesitantly. “Though I confess neither Anna nor I do well with nothing to keep us occupied.”

Anders stays quiet, no response, no comment. Frankly, Percy thinks that he’d be of more help if he _engaged_ in this conversation he’s started but he admits his own response is rather lacklustre. Then again, until the Briarwoods clear up with Anna whether they seek to retain their services or will be cutting them loose he can’t really give anything more clear.

Honestly, he’s half-afraid they’ll keep them close, not for any useful experiments but simply because they don’t dare let the last de Rolo free to reveal what they’ve done here.

“I suppose not,” Anders says eventually. “Ripley has always struck me as a very businesslike woman. Doesn’t tend to let fondness or familiarity affect her desire to study and experiment.”

Percy can’t help his smile at that; it’s something he loves of Anna. “No,” he agrees. “She dislikes boredom. It’s a problem we have now, to be honest. Until we know if our services will be retained we can hardly prepare many further experiments - hardly much point if we don’t know if we’ll be free to study them or have the resources to do so.”

Anders smiles at that. “Yes,” he says. “I can imagine. No one likes to be left in the lurch.”

“No,” he says. “It would help if we knew but-” He gestures. “I don’t imagine we’ll be told until our work is utterly complete, so we must wait until then. I don’t doubt Anna’s making plans for either outcome but she’s hardly let me know either. She knows I’ll do as told regardless; I owe her too much not to.”

“Do you mind that?” Anders looks genuinely curious as he asks. “The not knowing, the doing what she says? I know she was your tutor but still being effectively a schoolboy at your age...” He trails off but his face is sympathetic.

“I-” He shrugs. “Perhaps once I might have minded,” he admits. “But in honesty, Anna’s never given me a reason to doubt her. I’m sure she’ll do as she sees best for the both of us. I’m hardly about to endanger that.”

Anders is quiet at that, just watching with something sympathetic to his expression still and Percy feels almost compelled to explain.

“I- she promised to keep us safe back when-” He gestures, not at the room but at the castle beyond its bounds. “When everything happened. She’s never lied on that front. It’s- frankly, trusting her has got me this far and I’ve never had cause to regret that. She’s kept her word.”

“It must be nice,” Anders says. “To be able to trust someone like that. After everything with your family I’d have thought that hard, especially with her.”

“Because she’s so abrasive?” Percy asks, eyebrows raised. “I’ve- honestly, I’ve never found her so. Blunt, yes, and impatient at times but she’s always kept her word. It’s why my parents trusted her, it’s why I trust her. I- morals and Anna may not always be particularly aligned, I’ll admit; she’s a fondness for seeking results over being concerned about immediate costs but she’s _honest,_ more so than most, if only because she doesn’t see the point to lying half the time.” He shakes his head. “It is nice, I suppose. Having someone to trust, given everything, and knowing she trusts me in turn.”

For a while there’s quiet again, stretching almost uncomfortably.

“It’s why she leaves me with this,” he says, after a moment more of quiet, gesturing at the lab and smiling self-deprecatingly. “She knows I’ll keep it in good order and, unlike some, know what I’m doing. She trusts me to stay on top of it all.”

“I suppose,” Anders says, unfolding himself from where he leans against the wall. “Interesting what she trusts you with and what she doesn’t, I imagine.”

Percy pauses, blinking and more than a little confused. Anders has been dropping such small hints throughout, that Anna hasn’t told him something, that there’s something he doesn’t know but he hasn’t the slightest clue what he might mean. Anna trusts him with what he needs to know; if she hasn’t told him there must be a reason, even - or _especially_ \- if it’s important. Though, if it’s as important and obvious as Anders suggests-

He cuts the thought off. “Most everything,” he says as Anders steps towards the door. “She keeps her own counsel but I don’t think she truly hides much from me at all, Professor, though I thank you for the concern.”

“Of course,” Anders says. “Like I said, I do wonder about you at times.” He touches his hat in indication of a bow. “Been a pleasure talking to you, Percival. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”

As Anders leaves Percy gets the unsettling feeling that something has transpired he doesn’t fully understand.

* * *

“I spoke to Anders today.”

Percy says it quietly, casually, as he finishes up copying out the day’s notes in neat but he doesn’t expect the response it gets from Anna. She goes rigid where she stands by the fireplace, the book in her hand snapped shut with a dull _thud._

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

There’s a sharpness to her voice he’s not heard in years, the same scolding note she’d used when she’d first become his tutor and he’d made foolish mistakes in experimental procedure. He knows better now, by far; he’s not heard her sound like this since- well, since he told her he loves her, he thinks. More than two years ago. And then, before that… god he couldn’t even say. Long before the Briarwoods.

“Anders,” Percy says, setting down his pen. “He came by the laboratory; I’m not sure why. He was… asking questions. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

Anna relaxes minutely, the tense set of her shoulders softening down, her feet shifting to a more comfortable stance, and she sets the book on the mantelpiece and taps a metal finger against her lip before turning fully to face him.

“I don’t imagine you told him anything important,” she says - a statement and not a question but Percy shakes his head nonetheless.

“I couldn’t exactly avoid his questions; I thought that would seem suspicious. Still it was… unsettling. I am-” Percy pauses, his eyes fixed on the neat-written notes before him. He’s loath to admit mistake, even if admitting it might let Anna save them from it, and it takes him a moment to work up the courage. “I suspect I may have given him more information than intended,” he says quietly. “I- I do not know entirely what he was trying to learn but he was assuredly fishing for information on _something_ and seemed to think I might have some idea and that I might be willing to tell him. He seemed to think-” He pauses, takes a breath, glances up to Anna. “He seemed to think I might know something that would give me reason to distrust you; that would cause me to betray you to him.” He frowns, more to himself than anything else. “He seemed… unsettlingly sure of that and it makes me concerned as to what he might suspect of us.”

When he glances up, Anna is watching him still, metal finger tapping against her lower lip. “I see,” she says and turns away, plucking up her book and settling in her wingback by the fire. She does not say anything more, absorbed in her book and contemplation.

For a while Percy sits quietly. There’s still other notes to check over, paperwork to collate, things to check and to organise but Anna does not turn to him at any point, does not ask after the experiments or to look over the reports. It’s hardly the first time she’s been more absorbed in a book or in study than the day-to-day minutiae of the experiments - it’s half of why he’s there, after all, to manage it when it bores her - but after her earlier response it unsettles him as much as Anders did.

“Anna?” His voice is soft, tentative. “What- what should we do?”

She glances up at him over her book. The firelight glimmers in the lenses of her reading glasses, sheens softly over her skin and plays through her hair in a fine dance of light and shadow. 

“Wait,” she says. “We can hardly avoid his investigation. Continue as you have been and I’ll deal with it.” 

He must look doubtful at that or at least concerned because she doesn’t return to her book, her face still turned toward him and her eyes still watching over the pages.

“Percival,” she says instead, softer and not as harshly. “I’ll see us safe. I promise you that.”

He sighs, relaxes, finishes up his notes. Anna, he suspects, will spend several hours yet reading before retiring and it’s clear his presence isn’t required. He tries to find calm in the soothing motions of setting the desk to rights, putting everything in its correct place but he still feels unsettled, still feels as though something is wrong. 

Anna has promised. Anna has never yet broken her promise.

He crosses to her before leaving, pressing a kiss to her cheek as goodnight. She barely tilts her face to his, too absorbed in her book, and she doesn’t respond to his _Sweet dreams._ Percy shuts the door quietly behind him and suspects he’ll be back at her desk by midnight.

* * *

He’s not wrong. Unsettled he has trouble reaching sleep and after so long at Anna’s side, after everything else, his own room hardly feels welcoming nor safe to him any more.

He doesn’t know what Anders was after. It leaves him unrestful, worried. There’s a knot of tension in his chest, a thrumming presence that keeps him awake long after he should be asleep. He turns briefly to his sketchbook but even that doesn’t occupy him long. He finds himself drawing Anna over and over, sat in her wingback, book in her hands, turned away from him.

Most of all, right now, he wants the comfort of sleeping beside her but she won’t welcome him crawling into bed now, he knows. Not this late, not with the risk of waking her, not with how cold his hands and feet will be after walking through Whitestone’s halls at this hour. 

Still, there is some comfort he can gain from the nearness of her presence and after several hours of failing to sleep and failing to distract himself he pulls on a dressing gown, pockets a notebook and heads back to Anna’s chambers.

If he can’t keep himself occupied in his rooms he’ll occupy himself in Anna’s. She’s got by far the better selection of books and better he be useful than not.

Perhaps then he can make up for whatever disappointment she feels in his garnering Anders’ attention.

* * *

When time comes to sleep Percy pulls a blanket from the low chest by the fire and settles on the short sopha wedged between two bookshelves. It’s hardly the most comfortable thing, his toes poking out and making him glad of his socks, its cushions hard as stone, so he ends up bundling his dressing gown up to make a softer pillow. The fire’s long since gone low, Whitestone’s cold licking into the corners of the room, but the embers cast the room into a familiar play of light and shadow, a soft sheen on the polished wood that leads to Anna’s bedchamber.

He’s woken early in the morning, not by Anna’s rising nor the distant strains of birdsong outside but by the clear, firm sound of someone rapping on the door. He grumbles a little as he pulls himself upright, throwing his blanket over the back of the sopha and shaking out his dressing gown before pulling it on, setting his glasses neatly on his nose. His hair, he knows, is an unsalvageable wreck without a comb.

When he opens the door it is not to a face he might expect: not the Briarwoods expecting a report, not a servant with a letter or a guard with some account from the workers. Instead he sees: Anders, looking wary and suspicious.

“Percival!” he says, clearly startled. “I need to speak to Ripley.”

Percy blinks at him, once, twice, before opening the door wide. The desk is neat, nothing aside from data on the expected experiments laid out there and the only mess is the sopha he’d made his bed. He gestures at the smaller chair opposite Anna’s wingback.

“She’s asleep,” he says, his voice still rough and not entirely awake. “I’ll go wake her.”

He rubs a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up to scrub the sleep from the edges of his eyes as he crosses to Anna’s door, knocking quickly with one knuckle before slowly cracking the door open and calling her name.

She stirs a little at the noise and he calls again, stepping in, shutting the door softly behind him before he goes to her, gently reaching to jostle her shoulder. Her eyes snap open - something he likes of her, that she’s never drowsy as he is in the mornings, that she’s always rapidly, fully awake and alert.

“Percival.”

“Anders is here,” he says in a low voice. “He says he needs to speak with you.”

She pulls herself upright, reaching for her own dressing gown and tugging it on, the wooden case for her reading glasses tucked rapidly into the flannel pocket.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, briskly unbraiding her hair from the plait she puts it in to sleep before twisting it up into its usual bun.

“Mm.” Percy’s hum is soft. “Returned a little after midnight, worked for two hours, tidied up and slept on the sopha. Caught up on the invoices.”

She smiles at him for that, her metal hand reaching to briefly touch his cheek.

“Good boy,” she says. “Well. I suppose I should see what Anders wants.”

* * *

Anders isn’t in the chair Percy had indicated when they return to the office, Percy trailing a small distance behind in Anna’s wake. Instead, Anders is in Anna’s wingback, casually, unconcernedly facing half away from the both of them.

“Anders,” Anna says, sweeping forwards and settling in the other chair completely unruffled. “What do you want?”

“Oh, just to discuss,” he says, waving a hand. “We’ve not chatted in so long.”

“For good reason,” Anna says, clearly sceptical, “It always turns into an argument.” Anders says nothing but blithely gestures with a hand and Anna sighs. “I see. At this hour?”

“You are as prone to hiding yourself in your various labs as young Percival is. I’ve no doubt you’d lead me a very merry dance if I waited until later to try to speak to you.” He is, Percy knows, not wrong. Their labs are scattered around; Anna moves between them with swift speed as it is and has never much liked Anders besides.

“It might be best we speak alone,” Anders adds, leaning back in the wingback, fingers steepled in front of his face. His eyes flick to Percy. “Unless, of course, you trust your assistant enough for this?”

For a moment Anna is quiet, simply watching. Percy busies himself, folding up his blanket and setting it away, checking the notes on the desk to decide where to start today. Still, he looks up when Anna speaks.

“Percy, dear, go and get ready for the day, why don’t you?” She doesn’t look away from Anders. “The lab down the hall needs checking; some of the glassware is close to becoming too damaged to be of use. I’ll join you shortly.”

Percy glances between them but for all the near-smug smile on Anders’ face he sees no sign of concern on Anna’s.

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll see you there. Good morning, Professor.”

* * *

She doesn’t join him shortly. He doesn’t see her there. He lingers as long as he can consider to be reasonable in the lab down the hall but after a certain point he cannot linger any longer. He makes his way, slowly through all the labs in the castle, near and far to Anna’s chambers. The room that, long years ago, had been his classroom, the room that had been his private lab. The small room they’ve used for the occasional delicate experiments and of course the lab buried down amongst the tunnels. 

He tries, where he can, to linger as long as possible but he doesn’t see her. Not once. Tiredly, worriedly, he makes his way back to her chambers in the late afternoon.

It worries him that she’s not there either.

It’s not that she doesn’t trust him. Even sending him away, he doesn’t think that’s the case. Not trusting him with specific _things,_ perhaps - he knows there are things he does not need to know, ought not know for his own safety. Not trusting Anders, almost certainly - the man is as slippery as an eel and clever enough with words to be troublesome. 

But she trusts _him,_ he thinks. She has to.

* * *

He doesn’t see Anna again until evening has well set in. It’s raining outside, droplets pelting against the windows and he sits in his usual seat by her desk going over the day’s reports. He’s so focussed on his work that at first he doesn’t hear her enter, only noticing the sound of her footsteps as she steps closer. He glances up. For once, she doesn’t say anything.

“I went through the labs,” he says, as the silence stretches uncomfortably. “Replaced the glassware in the one down the hall and then ran the usual checks. Did the same in them all. When I came back again it was after noon and you weren’t here.”

“No,” she says softly. She still hasn’t stepped closer. “I wasn’t. I was required,” she says, lip curling, “elsewhere.”

She looks- she looks tired, if anything, and perhaps a little wary, as though, despite everything, Anders’ visit this morning did unsettle her. Quietly he moves his own chair in, pulls her one out. Watching him, she sighs.

“I have the day’s reports,” he offers. “If you want to look them over.”

He holds them out to her - he’s checked through all but the last one, they’re already the neat copies, already tidied, already organised, just as she likes. For once, though, she doesn’t reach to take them, none of her usual eagerness to see and to learn. Instead she’s watching him, watching closely, and he frowns, concerned. “Anna?” he asks.

“No,” she says eventually, reaching for his cheek, bending to press a kiss to his forehead. “I trust you.”

He leans into her hand, lifts his face towards hers, the touch of the metal fingers familiar and comforting, and he _relaxes,_ so much tension released with that touch and those words. After the stress of his conversation with Anders, of telling Anna, of Anders’ visit in the morning, the relief of her affection is breathtaking and her words- 

He does not have words for what her trust means to him but when he opens his eyes and she’s still scant inches away, he leans forwards and he kisses her. 

She hums, softly surprised, but kisses back, and when he pulls away, uncertain, she’s smiling, calm and assured and more like her usual self. 

“I assume you checked the mithral experiments as well?” she says, taking her seat. “Have they turned up anything interesting yet?”

Percy grins, finds the notes amongst the pile, and starts talking.

* * *

There’s a tension in the air the next few days. Sometimes Anders drops by when Percy is working but Anna is often with him now, unwilling to leave him to face the Professor alone. Percy thinks, perhaps, that he should not be as grateful for that as he is but there is something soothing to Anna’s presence, to her nearness, her regular company. He’s missed it since he grew practiced enough with the experiments and trusted enough with the data to be left alone and the increase of her presence from fleeting check-ins to a more complete partnership helps.

She is not _always_ there though and for a while it seems that Anders is wary enough of her increased presence that for several weeks he does not so much as stop by. 

Of course, eventually, he does.

* * *

“Hello, Percival.”

It’s early morning and Percy’s working in the main upstairs laboratory, refining the _residuum_ that’s to be traded. It’s simple work, just reliant on weighing the shards of whitestone to be used and measuring out the appropriate quantity of acid but Percy finds it soothing and, with Anna off at the quarries to find out why there’s been a delay with the latest shipment, he needs that.

He does not need Anders appearing in the doorway and he sighs, finishes weighing and measuring, and turns.

“Professor.”

He does not say anything more. Instead he stays put, standing and watching, unmoving by the refinery, waiting for Anders to make the first move.

Thankfully, he does.

“Percival,” Anders says, almost chiding as he steps further into the room. “Anyone would think you didn’t like me. Did Ripley tell you not to trust me?”

The laugh Percy gives comes unbidden, a small bitter thing. “Forgive me,” he says, “But, Professor, you laid the groundwork for my family to be attacked and killed. I do not need Anna’s guidance to know that I do not wish to trust you.”

“And yet,” Anders says, spreading his hands. “When we’ve talked, it’s been friendly.”

Percy eyes him, rubs his forehead, and turns back to his work. “What do you want?” he says over his shoulder, checking the next vat. The levels are correct but for whatever reason, the whitestone isn’t yet _residuum_ as it should be. He taps the tubes, shakes the bubbles out, wonders if, perhaps, it was mis-weighed or if there’s a clog in the filtration process.

He knows how careful he is; most likely, it’s the latter.

“So rude,” Anders says. His tone is chiding again but more cheerful, almost teasing in it. It reminds Percy uncomfortably of Julius. “To see how you’re doing, of course. Ripley’s made it rather clear she doesn’t want me around you if she has any say in it but I was honest when I said that I wonder about you sometimes. Worry, perhaps, might be a more accurate word for it. Your situation is hardly as precarious as it was but it can’t be easy even now.”

Percy shrugs. “Anna keeps me safe,” he says, peering at the apparatus. “And I remain useful. Unless you think there is cause for me to be concerned?”

Carefully, precisely, he taps his way along the copper tubing, his pencil clinking gently until it finds a point that produces a duller thud. To be fair, it’s a bend and a joint in one; it might well just be the natural noise but if it is clogged, this should be the spot. When he glances back to Anders the man is watching, curious but quiet. “Not so far as I’m aware,” he says, when he sees Percy looking. “But that’s not what I mean.”

Percy sighs and turns back to the apparatus, going back along the pipes to make sure he’s not missed anything. “If you mean easy in the sense of discomfort,” he says, “With regards to staying in the place in which my family was killed, then yes. If you mean with regards to staying in the family home under the rule of the people who killed my family, yes. If you mean with the knowledge that I am the last of my family doing work that most none of them would think fitting for me, then yes for the first half, less so for the second. But there is little enough I can do about any of those, so I work and I stay focussed on work and it helps.”

“And ensures that Ripley is pleased with you.” Anders says it with weight, as though trying to imply something greater. It is not the first time people have wondered at his dedication to Anna. There’s a reason she’s warned him to be careful what he says and where and Percy knows well how to avoid this pitfall as he sets a bucket beneath the apparatus and loosens a pipe enough it can start draining. 

“As I’ve said before, Professor, I owe her my life. I don’t know why you’re so surprised that I would work with her without issue.” He rises, turns, wipes his hands on his trousers. Behind him, the pipe begins to drain. “Yes, my work means that Anna is rarely if ever angry with me. It also keeps me occupied and means I keep my life. Given these are all things I would rather like to ensure, yes, I continue to work.” He tilts his head and watches Anders, tries to convey in the clear way that Anna does at times: _Your point?_

Anders smiles, a small odd one, one that sends the same feeling prickling down Percy’s back as with their first discussion. The sense that there is more going on than he can at first see.

“Of course,” Anders says. “Well, I shan’t keep you.” He nods at the apparatus, at the bucket slowly gathering acid as it drains off. “You have work to be on with. But- I do worry about you, Percival, and I should like to speak to you again.”

Percy frowns, nods, Anders waves, and Percy stands in silence for a long while. 

* * *

He rushes through draining the acid, working a pipe-cleaner into the bend until the stray piece of _residuum_ slips out. It’s a small ball of it, almost a perfect marble the size of the lead shot in his safe below, and Percy dries it off on a rag before slipping it into his pocket to add to the buckets later. He re-weighs the whitestone, makes a rough estimate for the acid and resets the apparatus. 

He does not finish checking over the rest, not immediately. Instead he seeks Anna. 

He runs into her as he’s heading down to the tunnels and he catches her elbow in one hand, tugs her back to the lab there. She stares at him, her jaw set in clear annoyance, but she goes nonetheless when she takes in the look on his face.

“Anders,” she says, once they’re safe in the lab, the door locked and bolted. “Again?”

“I don’t know what he wants,” Percy says. “But he’s insistent. I can’t- I can’t not talk to him, if I do that he’ll be even more suspicious.”

“And by talking to him you give one of his sort information, even if only little.” Anna taps her lip with one metal finger. She’s quiet for a long handful of moments, leaning against a workbench, her finger tapping on her lip, eyes fixed on the far wall as she thinks, something alert and darting to her face for all her near-stillness. “That is frustrating.”

Percy casts his eyes down. It’s not directed at him, he knows; Anna’s frustration is at Anders more than anything but he hates that he cannot help in this, that saying nothing condemns them as much as saying something. All he can do is warn Anna when Anders speaks to him and let her know what he can conclude from what little the Professor shares.

“He thinks you don’t trust him,” Percy says softly. It’s quiet down here; the solid stone of the ground around them muffles most noise and the room sounds only with the noise of acid refining whitestone, bubbles ringing off copper tubing and glass. “And he seemed to think that you’d told me not to trust him.”

She smiles at that, pleased, and Percy knows well why. She has never had to warn him to distrust Anders, though her distrust of the Professor stands for plenty. All she ever had to do was tell him Anders’ part in the fall of his family, those years ago. He had been honest in that to Anders - not that he thinks there’s much reason to lie. Like Anna, he thinks there little point much of the time.

“He- Anna, he thinks us-” He pauses, uncertain how to phrase it. That he and Anna are together? They are- in work and in bed alike, in accord in most everything because he does as Anna says while she is the one on whom his life depends. 

“He thinks us an _us,”_ Anna says, “Against the Briarwoods.” 

Percy, shakily, nods. “What- Anna, what should I do?”

She taps her lip, once, twice more, before shrugging and pushing off from the workbench she was leaning on. “Nothing,” she says. “There is nothing to be done, Percival. Continue as you were and I will see what can be done. Be careful, be cautious, but don’t change your habits.” 

“Anna-”

“I will keep you safe, Percival.” Her tone is calm, clear, self-assured. “I did promise you that.”

She did. She has never yet broken the promise. He bows his head, tries to take comfort in that, but he does not know half of what to make of what is going on but that it isn’t good. He does not see her move towards him for all he hears her footsteps. Her hand is light on his cheek. 

“Percival,” she says. “You have work to do. We will discuss this further this evening, once I have seen what can be done. But until then, do not do anything different. We have done nothing wrong. Nothing _is_ wrong.” Her hand pats, once, twice, against his cheek. “I will keep us safe. They cannot do anything to us without good reason; we are too useful for that.”

“What if-” Percy’s mouth is dry. “If they have a reason?”

Anna’s face goes hard and sharp, eyes alert and gaze pointed, her hand on his cheek tense, the metal fingers pressing into his flesh. “Do you think they have one?”

He shakes his head. “No. I don’t- but if they _do-”_

Once, twice, the metal hand pats his cheek. “Do not operate on paranoia, Percy. Do not operate on fear.” She leans forwards, her lips grazing his cheek, and he leans into the fleeting touch. “Everything will be fine. I’ll handle it. Now return to your work.”

She looks, as he watches her, calm and confident.

She has never yet broken her promise.

“Yes, Anna,” he says and goes.

* * *

“We must be careful,” she says that evening, once they’re safely ensconced in her office. Her hand is soft and sure on his jaw and he doesn’t even try to look away. “Anders will be watching us, watching closely. We cannot give him anything further to work with.”

He blinks at her, unsure what she means.

“You can keep sleeping here,” she says, gesturing at the room, at the sopha. “Plenty already know you do that; it’s hardly secret but it’s attributed to study and sleeplessness, not anything else. But until I have dealt with Anders, you cannot stay in my room. We cannot let him discover the truth, not if he means to make more inopportune visits. He cannot be allowed to know, not for certain. It will place us too much at risk if he thinks us more loyal to each other than the Briarwoods.”

“Anna-” he says and her grip tightens on his jaw. 

“They cannot think you more loyal to me than to them,” she says. “Even if you obey them solely out of fear, Percy, you must.”

“For you,” he says, throat thick. “Anna. I can’t be loyal to them. I- they _killed_ them, all of them. For you-” he stutters, dips his head to kiss her fingertip. “For you.”

Her hand gentles, slides from his jaw to cup his cheek. Her expression doesn’t soften but her voice is quiet, almost sympathetic when she speaks. “I know,” she says, her fingers smoothing along his cheek. “Just do your best, Percy. Seeming loyal is more important than being so right now, can you do that?”

His eyes stay fixed on her face. “Yes,” he says. “For you.”

She bends and presses a kiss to his temple and Percy wishes very much that he could just embrace her.

* * *

Work is, for a few days, quiet. Anders is there on occasion, watching from doorways or asking questions, but Anna is attentive once more, unwilling to leave him alone when Anders might appear at any moment. With her so close, Anders does not linger, finding some excuse to vanish once she makes herself known. Percy dares not lean into the comfort of her company when they might be being watched but safely ensconced in her office he does.

“Percival.” Anna’s voice is calm, quiet, almost scolding but not truly angry in the least. “I promised you. I will keep us safe. That includes from Anders.”

She certainly seems to be. Her presence alone staves Anders off and, when she is not in the labs with him, he knows her to be working on the problem - meetings with Lady Briarwood, collation of data unrelated to their experiments and the _residuum_ refinement. He returns one evening to her office to find her conversing with a servant, an older maid, worn and tired, her back ramrod straight.

“Thank you, Nella,” she says, when she sees him return. “We’ll speak later.”

The maid goes, a curtsey quickly bobbed before she vanishes out the door. Percy does not ask why the maid was there. Even before the Briarwoods Anna had rarely had time for _people;_ the only logical conclusion is that this sudden interest pertains to the problem at hand. It soothes him and, that night at least, he sleeps untroubled.

It doesn’t last. Percy knows it could never last, not as the deadline for the ziggurat’s completion nears. They’re still ahead of schedule which is good but increasing delays in the deliveries of whitestone and shipments of acid are causing more trouble than can be easily coped with. The _residuum_ they refine for trade might help them keep their lead, Percy knows, but it is less than ideal, and while the advantage they maintain should be sufficient buffer for now, he’d rather not risk it.

It’s Anna’s favourite old saying, after all: _Better safe than sorry_ . Percy is very aware just how _sorry_ the Briarwoods might make them.

He does what he can. Anna is distracted with the trouble Anders causes and for all he’d much love her aid in resolving this, he knows she wouldn’t leave it to him if she didn’t think him capable. Days he spends adjusting the division of acid between the needs of the ziggurat and the _residuum_ they refine for trade; restless nights he increasingly spends at his desk or Anna’s, going over and over and over the same notes, trying to eke out every last drop of acid he can for their use. Where he cannot find it, he resolves, they may have to make it.

“Well _done,”_ Anna says, looking over his notes one morning. “Less than ideal but with circumstances as they are…” she trails off, her hand gripping his shoulder tight and he cannot tear his eyes away from her face as she looks over his plans; the pleased tilt to her mouth, the relaxation of her increasingly-present frown. He much prefers it when she is happy after all and that is hard given the current situation. 

“It’s certainly doable,” she says. “I shall speak to Delilah.” Gently, fleetingly, her hand pats his cheek and he leans into the touch, turns his face so his lips graze her fingertips. The smile she gives him is almost fond. “Go and start on the lab work for today. I’ll be with you shortly.”

It leaves him soothed, the contact and the praise, the reassurance that soon she’ll join him, and he heads to work with ready ease.

He does not expect to find Anders already there, crouched by the tables, peering at the apparatus, one hand reaching out as though to _touch-_

“Don’t.” Percy doesn’t realise it’s himself who spoke, tone so absolute, until Anders’ hand snaps back, the man turning to look at him, brows raised in surprise. He forces himself to continue. “It’s very delicate. Easy to upset. Any delays you cause by unwittingly damaging it will displease Lady Briarwood as much as Anna.”

Anders doesn’t look away as he straightens. “I see,” he says. “And here I thought it was a simple distillation set up.”

There’s a trap here, Percy knows, some suspicion or goal that Anders is driving towards and wants him, wittingly or not, to confirm for him. He knows, too, that saying nothing can be as damning as saying something.

“We’re distilling the physical impurities out of the whitestone to make it a more powerful magical conductor. That requires alchemical acid combined out of others and created on-site for maximum potency, which must then be drained off before the _residuum_ can be handled. Simple it is not.”

“And yet,” Anders says. “You have no trouble with any of it.”

At that, Percy frowns. “I would hope not,” he says. “As I’ve been working on it for the past five years. I’d be rather worried if I didn’t know how it worked.”

For a long moment Anders says nothing simply watching and Percy steps further into the room, pulling his notebook from his pocket to begin to check the levels. When he’s done with that, Anders is still there.

“Is there anything I can help you with, Professor?”

“Perhaps,” Anders says. “You’re still working with Ripley I see.”

“I truly don’t know why that baffles you, Professor,” Percy says, for perhaps the umpteenth time. He doesn’t turn from his work.

“No,” Anders says softly. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Don’t you ever wonder at all, Percival?”

“Wonder about what?”

“Ripley,” he says. “And why she saved your life.”

 _Because I am useful,_ flashes across his mind before anything else followed by, _Because I was the only one she_ **_could_ ** _save,_ and then lastly, trailing behind and wrapping warm around the other two, _Because she cares about me._

“Percival?” Anders is watching, expectant, and Percy watches back, terribly confused as to what it is that Anders _wants._

“I don’t appreciate my assistant being interrogated, Anders.” Anna’s voice is calm and cold and she stands in the doorway, the metal hand on the frame glinting like a scalpel blade and Percy cannot help the relief he feels at her presence.

“Hardly an interrogation,” Anders says. “Just a friendly chat.”

Anna glances between them, Anders, Percy, Anders, Percy, and lifts an eyebrow. “Of course,” she says. “But you’re preventing him from doing his job. Go, please.”

Anders smiles as he moves towards the door, as Anna steps inside to let him pass. “Why, Anna,” he says. “Anyone would think you didn’t want he and I to talk.”

* * *

“Percival!” Anders says and Percy startles at the sudden voice. “Where are you going so late at night?”

It’s late indeed, well past midnight, but Percy cannot sleep, not after waking from the memory of Julius’ still body in the cells.

“Anna’s rooms,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “Couldn’t sleep. You?”

Anders falls into step beside him, face sympathetic. “Oh, nothing much,” he says. “Felt like a stroll.” He peers closely at Percy. “Not something so simple for you, I suspect. Bad dream?” His voice is kind. “I can’t imagine it’s easy to stay here after-” He gestures. “Everything that happened. What was done to your family.”

Percy closes his eyes, nods. Remembers what Anna had said, those years ago. _You cannot help those who do not help themselves. No matter how hard you try._

“I prefer to be useful,” he says. “I failed with my family, I at least have some success working with Anna. When I cannot sleep-” He gestures down the hallway, dimly lit by the occasional rushlight and pools of moonlight. “I work. Anna’s office is where we keep the reports and she has the best books besides.”

“Makes sense,” Anders says, frowning. “Though I can’t imagine the proximity is comfortable for you.”

Percy frowns back. He dislikes Anders’ leading statements, the hints he knows something Percy does not but should nonetheless, while still refusing to _tell him._ He shakes his head. “I honestly have no idea what you mean,” he says tiredly. “But if you mean Anna, no, I find it helpful.”

“That’s-” Anders shakes his head. “Never mind me.”

For a while they walk in silence, nothing but footsteps and the soft crackle of the rushlights, but it’s niggling now, this thing unsaid that Anders baits before him like meat before a wolf.

“If there is something you would say,” he says, “please do just say it. You hint and hint but unless you’re prepared to actually _tell,_ I hardly see why I should listen or trust you. Anna at least does not lie to me when she thinks it best I not know something.”

They are nearing Anna’s rooms now and Percy does not think that Anders is about to tell him whatever secret he holds over him, not with Anna so close. He may not know what this secret is but he knows it relates to Anna and knows it is not something Anders thinks Anna wants him to know. For all his curiosity, he is not entirely sure he _wants_ to know if it is something Anna has chosen to keep from him. As yet, her secrets have all been for their safety.

“You know,” Anders says. “Were you any other I might suspect you of sneaking off for an evening’s assignation.”

Percy coughs something close to a laugh, too startled to be more than half of one. It hits, perhaps, a little too close to home; right now, anxious as he is, he’d love nothing more than to slip into bed with Anna, not for sex but solely for the comfort of her company. 

But, until Anders stops hounding them, he cannot.

“Not likely,” he says. “No.”

It’s strange. He does not trust Anders. Anna does not trust Anders and in honesty he trusts her more than he does himself at this point. But when they talk and Anders does not pry, when Anders simply asks politely and offers sympathy- 

Percy never had many friends, before, in part for lack of trying, in part because when he did try there were few enough who shared interests and intelligence enough to be engaging. Outside of his siblings and Anna, he has not really had many peers he felt comfortable with. He feels strangely comfortable with Anders, now, for all he does not trust him. 

“No,” Anders agrees. “You keep too much to yourself, Percival, you should loosen up.”

“Now you sound like my brother,” he says, words slipping out before he really has time to consider them. He pauses, considers the old memories with a pang, then pushes on. “Julius used to say much the same.”

When he looks over to Anders, the man looks apologetic. Percy sighs and keeps walking. 

They’re almost at Anna’s door now and Percy rests his hand on the familiar wood, the other delving into the pocket of his dressing gown to find his key before moving to unlock the door and turn the handle. 

“Thank you for the company,” he says, before leaving Anders to continue his stroll. “Though- Professor.” He pauses, unsure how exactly to phrase what he means to say. Anders watches in silence. “I appreciate honesty,” he says eventually. “Not hints without weight behind them.”

“I’ll remember that,” Anders says, softly. He lifts a hand to his brow as though he has his hat on. “Good evening, Percy. I’ll see you around.”

* * *

“Percy.” Anna’s voice is soft and fond when he wakes to it the next morning. Her hand is gentle in his hair, ruffling it, and slowly he peels his face off the paperwork on the desk. His face stings where the frame of his glasses had dug in as he slept. “Productive evening?”

He thinks there’s a hint of a laugh to her voice and he’s glad of that, glad that he can make her happy in even quiet ways and he neatens his glasses and looks at her. “I hope so,” he says. Slowly, he tidies the papers still spread out on the desk. “I-” He pauses. Looks up at Anna again. “I’m not sure it was as productive as I’d hope.”

She frowns at him, concerned, her hand falling from his hair. Percy misses it immediately.

“Anders,” he says. “When I was walking to your rooms. He joined me.”

Anna’s lips purse, her fingers tap a staccato pattern on the desktop. “I see,” she says. “Nosy-” She cuts herself off. “Did you tell him anything useful?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Mostly he- he guessed why I couldn’t sleep. He was… sympathetic.”

“He wants you to trust him,” Anna says. Her judgement of such a course of action is evident in her tone.

“I don’t,” he says. “I won’t.”

Her expression softens. “I know,” she says and strokes his cheek. “Go and get dressed. We both have work to do.”

* * *

She does not join him for lab work that day and Percy feels her absence keenly. 

* * *

Of all the awful, frustrating things that Anders’ investigation has cost him, Percy did not expect that Anna’s company, Anna’s bed, the simple comfort of being able to sleep beside her, was what it would hurt the most to lose. Less free time he is more than able to handle; he has little enough already with what little he has voluntarily given over to sitting with Anna, working with Anna, developing new theories for them both to test. Being observed: he has been observed before, by both of the Briarwoods, by Anna herself, by workers wondering at the last de Rolo working in service to the very same people who felled his family.

He spent most of his youth taught how to handle the public eye; he hardly likes being observed, least of all by the Briarwoods, but he is more than able to handle it.

He does not know how to handle far too many dreams, some uncomfortable and some simply far too pleasant, dreams of what he misses and what he craves: Anna’s company be it as simple and gentle as sleeping beside her or something far more passionate. It was one thing to have such dreams when he was free to wander, free to return to Anna’s rooms and slip into Anna’s bed. As it is, forbidden the comfort of her company that they stay safe from Anders’ prying eyes, it’s intensely frustrating.

* * *

She slips into his room as he’s going over his own research. It’s been a quiet day with little to do - a lull as they wait for a fresh load of whitestone from the quarries, for a fresh shipment of acid. Anna had taken over management of the laboratories early in the day, waving him off. It’s not too surprising that, bored and irritable, she’d claim the work as her own but it’s rare that he has time to himself not caused by sleeplessness: he doesn’t entirely know what to do with it.

He knows less what to do with Anna’s presence in his rooms. She’s never visited him here: all their work is based out of her chambers. He’d be worried but- she doesn’t look scared. She doesn’t look concerned. If anything, she looks satisfied. 

He knows as well as the labs in the morning she had a meeting with Lady Briarwood at noon, something about Anders’ prying games interrupting their work. He knows: they can hardly have Anders commanded off his hunt but at the very least it can be made less intrusive to their work, to the refinement of the ziggurat. It’s late afternoon, now, moving into evening - a long meeting, he suspects, though he guesses from Anna’s face that the discussion at least bore some fruit. 

“Anna?”

The satisfied look on her face grows to a smile and she steps towards him, her hand reaching to his jaw, metal fingers tilting his face to hers as she kisses him. He’d almost think it a dream but for the dull ache where her fingers press into his skin, the brief sharp pain as her teeth dig into his lip. Gladly, he kisses back.

He’s breathing hard when Anna pulls away - they both are - and he watches up at her, work forgotten between his hands, uncertain and amazed.

“Are- the meeting. I- are we safe?”

Her smile broadens, bright, beautiful, sharp as her scalpels. Her thumb strokes across his jaw, the cool metal touch soothing. “Soon,” she says. “For now, we’re safer. And soon, we will be safe. I did promise you.”

There is something bright to her gaze, warm to her smile, anticipatory and indulgent at once in her expression and he rises and reaches and kisses her hard. The hum she gives is warm and pleased, her hand gone from his jaw to his wrist, firm and certain. When she tugs him toward the door to his bedroom, he goes willingly.

* * *

“It’s late,” he says afterwards. She’s sprawled atop him, metal hand stroking down his forearm, her hair come a little loose from her bun, her expression serenely satisfied. His hand maps mindless patterns over her back, down her spine. Even through the cotton of her blouse he can feel the few scars she has, the soft vague outline of her ribs and, aware of her as he is, he can feel too where her feet press against his legs, hidden under the obscuring spread of her skirt. “Stay?”

He feels her chin move against his chest, sees her head shake. 

“I can hardly be seen sneaking from your rooms in the morning, Percival.” Her fingers tap against his wrist reprovingly. “That is infinitely more suspicious than you departing from mine, as you well know.”

It’s true enough but that doesn’t stop the crushed kernel of hope in Percy’s chest. He’s missed this, missed her warm presence more than he can say and even if Anna has made them safe, made them safer, as long as Anders hunts whatever information it is he seeks from them he knows time spent like this will be a rarity.

He leans forward, presses his lips to hers. “Just for a little while?” he asks. He tries very hard not to let it sound like a whine.

She watches down at him as he pulls away, his head falling back onto his pillow, watching up at her and waiting for her verdict. Her lips curl into a smile, fleeting, almost fond. Briefly, her lips find his.

“No,” she says. “Another time, perhaps. Once we are safe from Anders.”

She plants her hands on his chest as she rises up and he hisses, sensitive still, as she slips off him. Briefly, her thumb strokes his cheek. 

“Good boy. Where’s your copy of Belthorne’s _Compendium of Spirits?”_

“Third shelf up, bookshelf on the left,” he says, covering himself. “Between the _Alchemic Almanac_ and Crispin’s _Conversational Celestial.”_

She smiles down at him. Briefly, her hand strokes through his hair. “Why Celestial, Percival? There are much more useful languages to know.”

“I like it,” he says with a shrug. “It’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful and useless.”

He shrugs again. It’s the same argument as art, the one thing he and Anna never agree on. “Not everything has to be useful to have value,” he says, and her hand pats his cheek.

“That’s your upbringing talking.”

She sighs. Looks around. He makes no effort to rise or respond. If Anna wanted his company she’d have asked him to fetch the volume himself; if she wanted his answer she’d have challenged his claim.

He wants, very much, to tell her how much he loves her.

“Likely tomorrow I’ll be called away again,” she says. “The shipments of fresh acid should be arriving; I’ll need to check them. You’ll manage the ziggurat refinement on your own?”

“I have this far.”

“Good boy,” she says again, lips quirking into a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Do get some _sleep_ , Percival. You’re a wreck without it.”

As she leaves, doors _snicked_ shut behind her, Percy sinks down into his bed. An early night is, perhaps, not the worst of ideas.

He sleeps and sleeps peacefully.

* * *

He thinks, perhaps naively, that Anna would not be so happy - would not be so willing to visit his own rooms - if she had not assured them safety from Anders such that they did not need to fear him. This is why, a week later, he jumps half a foot to see Anders at the laboratory door.

Anders, Percy is quite sure, has never descended to these depths if he could help it, this private lab given over to the conversion of the ziggurat. Only he himself, Anna, the Briarwoods, and those few labourers needed to haul _residuum_ back and forth do that.

“Jumpy much?” Anders asks, stepping into the chamber. “Some say that’s a sign of a guilty conscience.”

Percy sighs, rolls his eyes. Turns back to his work. “You’d know, I suppose,” he says. When Anders doesn’t reply he glances over. “There are few of us that come down here often; I’m hardly likely to expect other company.”

“No,” Anders says softly. “No, I suppose not. You must get terribly lonely.”

For _that_ comment Percy frowns at him. In all his life Percy’s never really wanted for companionship. Short on friends perhaps but he always had his siblings, if nothing else, and had the studies for which he cared far more than socialising and now, with his family gone, he still has Anna, who is, he thinks, all the company he truly needs.

“Not really,” he says. “I’ve never really needed much company to be happy and I have Anna besides. Loneliness isn’t particularly an issue.”

“Your choice of companionship is ever intriguing, Percival.”

There it is again and Percy suppresses a sigh. Anders baiting and hinting and refusing to say anything and _clearly_ it’s about Anna in some respect but Percy can’t for the life of him imagine _why._ Anna saved his life. Anna tried to help him to save his parents and his siblings. In everything since, despite the effort it must take to ensure it, she has kept him safe.

Whatever doubts Anders means to cast, Percy highly doubts they have enough weight to damage all Anna did for his sake. All Anna means to him and he to her. 

“Professor,” he says, glancing over, his pencil marking the line he’s at. “I truly have no idea what you mean by that.”

“Don’t you _know?”_ Anders sounds genuinely surprised, which Percy doesn’t expect. “Didn’t any of your family tell you?”

“Tell me _what,_ Professor?” Percy’s halfway to snapping, now and sets his notebook down, runs a hand through his hair. “I truly don’t know what you’re getting at. If you think I know some family secret of the castle I can assure you my parents and siblings told me no more than they told any of you-”

“Not that,” Anders still seems surprised but there’s a sympathetic cast to his face now, the same as Father had worn before going to tell Whitney her cat had died. Gentle but prepared to admit the horrible. “Don’t you know who was in charge of the interrogations?”

Percy frowns. “I know Anna had some part in it, if that’s what you’re referring to. She told me what I was to ask my siblings and my parents. But for the most part, I believe interrogation was left in the hands of Stonefell and Tylieri and their men.”

“I see,” Anders says, almost a sigh. “It makes sense. You are so very loyal after all.”

He straightens at that, glares. “Professor,” he says, tone firm. “I’ve said before. If you wish to tell me something, simply _tell me._ Do not play games. If you will not be honest with me then please-” He gestures to the door. “Leave.”

For a while Anders is quiet but he straightens where he stands, no longer leaning against the wall, and tugs on his sleeves, neatening his jacket. “Percival,” he says, soft but clear, quiet in a way that reminds Percy of Anna when angry but unable to immediately show it. It is very hard for him not to shrink back at hearing it. “I have a job here too, lest you forget. I am also limited and constrained by our shared masters.”

The hints are twofold and hardly the most subtle. _You cannot make me leave. And they do not permit me to tell you._

He makes himself stand upright, shoulders back, does not let himself fold. “I understand,” he says. There are corollary conclusions to what Anders has said: _I cannot tell you but I can hint. It’s on you to figure it out._

But Percy has no idea what he might mean. He has no reason to distrust Anna and every reason to be loyal to her. For a while they stand in silence, unmoving. An impasse. After a long series of moments, Percy sighs.

“I am quite aware of what your job is,” Percy says. “To make contacts and alliances and to see those alliances are kept. But if you think something is failing in mine and Anna’s work, if you think her untrustworthy and that alliance shaken, I do not know why you or the Briarwoods might seek me for answers. I know my place. I was never one to make such decisions when my family lived and I am certainly not in a position to make them now they’re _dead.”_

He sees, as he says that last with force, Anders seem to flinch.

“If anyone is making such a decision in our work,” he says more softly, “Then it would be Anna. But she has given me no such indication. We work - that is what we are employed to do. Until the Briarwoods let us know if they mean to retain our services further or let us go, we work and we serve. So if you feel our alliance is fading the only thing I can conclude is that, when this is done, we will no longer be of use to the Briarwoods and they fear that Anna may turn on them and thus they sent you to scout and see if it is true.”

“Is it?”

Anders is still stood in place, a little more relaxed but still watching, still with the edge of tension to the set of his shoulders.

“Not to the best of my knowledge,” Percy says. “What would it serve either of us to do that? The Briarwoods have every reason to want me as dead as the rest of my family and, as it happens, I rather like living. Antagonising them is a sure way to lose that privilege. Anna is quite aware of this too, I can assure you, and she sees no reason to end any business relationship badly; it’s unproductive.”

“And what happened to your family? Was that not unproductive?”

Percy closes his eyes. Sighs. His shoulders sink. “What happened to my family was a tragedy. We both of us endeavoured to save them; they would not let themselves be saved. What is done is done. We both did what we could.”

Anders watches, silent, for several long moments. Percy doesn’t look away, doesn’t return to work, does not speak. He is sick of Anders’ presence, of Anders’ leading statements, of the way Anders hints and hints and refuses to say anything and even if the Briarwoods have forbidden it there are better ways around it than this. Hidden messages or clearer statements, not this perpetual circling around Percy’s one point of certainty.

“If I ought not know,” Percy says at long last, “Perhaps you ought not hint so much to me. I have no interest in secrets I should not so much as be aware of. Like I said, I rather like living.”

“True enough,” Anders says with a laugh. “True enough. If you are certain, then. I suppose I ought to take my leave.”

Percy does not say _please_ for all he thinks _thank god._ Instead he turns back to work as Anders moves to leave.

“Percival?” Anders’ voice sounds something close to sincere this time and, if this is to be the last they talk, he might as well respect it, so Percy turns to look at him. “It’s clear you’re no traitor,” he says. “For all you are concerningly loyal to one. Just remember: _once a traitor, always a traitor.”_

* * *

He skitters back to Anna’s side after that, tidying up everything he can, finishing every task before leaving the lab and locking the door. When he arrives in Anna’s chambers so clearly spooked, she sets her book down without hesitation, crossing to where he leans against the door. As she nears, he reaches for her.

“There, there.” Her voice is soft, her arms firm around him, her lips gentle on his cheek. “What happened, Percival?”

It takes him a moment, clinging to her and his forehead pressed to her shoulder, breathing in the scents of skin and acid, coffee and metal, the soothing things he associates with her, before he can bring himself to speak.

“A-anders,” he says. “He came to talk to me again.” He pulls himself upright, looks her in the eye and hers are bright and attentive, unafraid for all the clear wary concern. “Anna,” he says. “He called you a traitor. He thinks- I think he means to convince the Briarwoods to kill you. He-”

“He thinks you loyal to me.” Her voice is quiet and she pulls back too, stepping towards the desk to pluck up papers.

“I _am,”_ Percy says, taking a stumbling step towards her, then a stride. “You saved my life. I lo-” He cuts himself off. She knows he loves her.

She smiles at him briefly, small and knowing. “Yes,” she says. “And if he cannot turn you to his side then he will see you fall with me.”

Percy knows his horror must be visible on his face.

“Percival.” Her voice is calm. Steady. “Do you trust me?”

He says, mouth dry, “With my life.”

“Good.” She pulls him close, his face towards hers and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Make us some coffee, won’t you? I need to see what I can do.”

For a moment he stays still, his hands cupping her elbows until, gentle and cold, her metal hand cups his cheek. He sighs and leans into the touch. 

“Percival,” she says. “Go on. I will keep us safe.”

He sighs. Nods. Steps back, his hands coming loose from her elbows as he steps towards the coffee pot. If his hands tremble while he prepares the beans and sets them to brewing, only he and Anna know it.

* * *

Anders stops lingering. No more does he visit Percy in the labs and it would almost send a pang through him, the lack of company he - sometimes - appreciated, at least when Anders wasn’t prying or poking or questioning Percy’s loyalty. 

He doesn’t stop hounding them, though. There’s new letters in Anna’s inbox, all in an increasingly familiar hand, sheets of interrogative questions and keen enquiries and every time Anna slices one open her expression makes it clear she’d rather like to stab each one to the table with the letter-opener. On a few mornings they prompt expressions of pure black fury and Anna rises from her chair, striding out the door, skirt swirling around her ankles and door slamming shut in her wake.

Percy keeps his head down and works: he knows that, when Anna is angry, it is best to let her vent it at a suitable target and not get involved. If Anna means to take her anger to Anders or, worse, to Lady Briarwood, Percy would rather stay far, _far_ away.

He’s sleepless more nights than not as the tension of it builds and while he goes to Anna’s rooms often enough he can’t _always,_ not with how close an eye Anders clearly keeps on them. He heads down below more and more, below where, increasingly wary, he and Anna have set up traps, Alarm spells and tripwires, small tricks that he knows and she knows, the labourers and, most likely, the Briarwoods know but not Anders. 

Even if Anders does know, he thinks, it’s unlikely he’d be able to avoid setting off the Alarm spells. Only he and Anna don’t and while he doesn’t receive the mental alert of the first one being set off he can certainly hear the audible bell of the second one, nearer by. 

Percy checks the refinery, checks the acid distillation, checks the stashes of shards they’re still occasionally being forced to raid to ensure the progress on the ziggurat proceeds apace. With that done, he checks the small side-experiments Anna had set up, checks the whitestone processing once more.

It is only one very quiet night that he dares to open the safe and piece together the weapon he’d sought to make. Each part fits together exactly as intended, slotting together with exact precision and Percy wonders, almost, at his desire to finish it - to finish it when he knows not yet what will happen. If anything, making it is more a risk than he might otherwise care for but, he thinks, they need some final protection now, from Anders and the Briarwoods both. 

He knows what Lord Briarwood is after all and knows what radiant energy can do to such a creature. Better he keep this in reserve for the inevitable eventual emergency than let it be known to others just yet. Even Anna.

* * *

He sleeps more often below, less often in his rooms. He thinks, perhaps, it is the security to be found below, behind spells and tripwires, a place far more securely safe than his own bedchamber. After all, his family was attacked in the castle above and, if he cannot seek the security of Anna’s presence, other security is at least some comfort.

Still, each morning he returns to Anna’s rooms, stopping by his own only for a fresh set of clothes and a chance to get clean. He’s never been one for mornings but Anna expects him there and he is loath to let her down. He has each time Anders has spoken to him; he refuses to do more. Some rare mornings he is even sat in his seat by Anna’s desk before she’s even risen, already looking over the papers for the day and so it is, three weeks after Anders’ last conversation with him, that he finds the papers that make no sense. 

“They’re not my handwriting,” he says, handing them over when she emerges. “Or yours. But someone’s signed your name to them nonetheless.”

There’s a look on her face as she examines them, something angry, something truly hateful, and he gets the sense that _this,_ more than anything else, is a step too far in whatever dance Anna and Anders are engaged in. 

“Go,” Anna says, gesturing with the papers. “Check on the labs. I-” She glances down at the papers he found, signed in her name but most certainly not written in her hand or his, the forgery clear enough to stand out to the both of them. He hadn’t had time yet to read them before she emerged but whatever they say is making her expression stew darker and darker. For a moment her hand twitches towards the letter-opener, sharp dagger that it is, her expression furious and pensive at once before she gathers the papers to her along with the reports from the day before. “I have to go to see Delilah. If this is what I think it is, we have far greater concerns than I thought.”

There’s a smile on her face now, though, a narrow sharp thing, bright and deadly as her scalpels and Percy wonders if he should feel pity for whomever was responsible. Given he suspects it’s Anders, he’s even more uncertain.

Without much fuss he pulls his things together, collects his notebook and heads to the labs, Anna heading in her own direction once they’re outside the door. 

He thinks that, perhaps, he should be afraid of whatever meaning those forged papers hold but with Anna so determined he can hardly feel anything but _safe._

* * *

He’s back at Anna’s door earlier than expected, less to check on in the labs than he’d thought, and though he double-checks the reports, the charts of progress, there’s no indication he’s made an error. He walks back, papers in hand, but pauses to see Anna’s door half-open, to hear voices from within. He makes the last two steps closer quietly and leaves his hand and his key in his pocket.

“He’s quite a study, your Percival.” Anders’ voice is soft but clear, casual, and Percy frowns, unsure why the Professor would be speaking to Anna. The two have been ever more clearly at odds since Percy told Anna of what he said, certainly more at odds with the letters piling up in Anna’s inbox. He doesn’t know why they’d permit a peaceful meeting in private unless there is some other plan he is yet unaware of.

“I suppose.” Anna, noncommittal, untrusting. That, at least, is familiar.

“Remarkable what you’ve done with him to see him survive. What you’ve managed to make of him.”

“I was hardly about to let the best student I’ve had in years _die_ if I could save them.” Percy quietly preens at the pride in her voice.

“Is that what you’ve done?” Percy can hear the smile in Anders’ tone. “Making him survive his family’s deaths, staying here under the thumb of the one responsible for it-”

Percy frowns, thinking he must have misheard, but the two continue talking regardless.

“He was my student,” Anna says and Percy can imagine how she’s drawing herself up tall, back ramrod straight, proud and strong as any of the family. “Therefore, he was under my _care.”_

There’s a spitting sarcasm to her words, one Percy’s never heard before. He knows how readily she mocked standard teaching practices, the way his prior tutors had tried to teach, had practically babied him. He knows how little she thinks of being caring in a classroom: _The most care you should have,_ she had always said, _is to ensure you don’t get hurt._

But if that expected duty of care is the reason she is giving for saving him he doesn’t know why she’d let her contempt of it so clearly show. He almost misses what Anders says next in his confusion.

“And such care you show to him, Anna,” and that is definitely mocking, what Anders says now, definitely sarcastic, and Percy tenses, his heart hammering, hands trembling. If Anders has _guessed-_

No, he decides. He has heard enough, heard what aspersions Anders has cast on Anna, heard his suspicions, and he doesn’t dare chase them all down until he has spoken with Anna himself. She would not want him standing here, lurking, hearing things she never intended him to hear. _Eavesdroppers ne’er hear good of themselves,_ after all. 

“Doctor Ripley?” he calls and pushes the door open.

Anna, he sees, stands behind her desk, the behemoth of dark wood a clear boundary between her and Anders where the Professor stands in the middle of the room.

“I heard voices,” he says, his eyes flicking between them. “Is everything all right?”

Anna smiles gently. “Quite all right,” she says, holding out a hand for the reports. “The Professor was just leaving.”

Anders, as Percy passes him to pass over the reports, smiles, small and pleased. It sends a shiver down Percy’s spine. “Of course,” he says, inclining his head. “I’m sure the cause of our next meeting shall be interesting, Anna. I’ll see you around, Percival.”

Anders steps towards the door, footsteps softened by carpet, and the door _snicks_ shut behind him. After a long moment they hear the clear clicking of bootheels against the flagstones, echoing away. 

He moves to step closer, to hand over the reports, he opens his mouth to speak but Anna raises one metal finger, her flesh hand flexing around a small coin as she casts some small spell he doesn’t recognise. She sighs, her shoulders relaxing from their tense posture.

“Gone,” she says. “Leave them on the desk, Percival.” 

There’s a formality to her, a harsh wariness. She doesn’t doubt him, he thinks, but she is suspicious. Percy hates that she does not seem to trust him and, reports set down, he steps back, eyes cast down to where his hands now pick at each other. 

“Percy,” she says, voice soft, tone warning. “What did you hear?”

His shoulders curl, his fingers tense. “I- I’m not sure,” he says. “I- you never leave the door open like that-”

“Anders,” Anna says. Even with his eyes on his hands he can imagine how her lip is curling. Anger. 

“Just pieces,” he says. “I- I don’t understand but- he was- he doubts you. He suspects us. He wondered why you saved me?”

He dares a glance up; Anna’s face is set, wary, but the tension is easing from it, the hard look to her eyes softening back to her usual calm calculation. 

“Anna-”

“Yes.” Her voice is quiet. Tired. She closes her eyes, sighs. Waves a hand. “Get yourself some coffee, Percival. Take a moment. We will discuss this when you’re less of a wreck.”

He does not point out, as he moves to pour his cup, as he offers and pours one for Anna too, that her own hands tremble as well. Whatever this is, whatever test Anders is putting forward, it is dangerous for them both and he thinks, as he hands her a steaming mug, that if he cannot trust her, he cannot trust anyone.

They settle into their chairs, Anna half-slumped in her wingback as she never usually is, and for a while there is silence.

* * *

Anna is never still for long. Percy is halfway through his cup when she stands and starts to pace, her own steaming cup left on the table by her chair. He can see her metal thumb rubbing her lip, the frown creasing her brows, the lingering traces of whatever Anders has done to unsettle her. 

He wishes he knew how to help. 

She paces, turns, paces, turns, strides slowing and becoming more steady, more certain as she thinks. Percy doesn’t speak until she’s slowed almost to a standstill, when he knows her thinking is almost done.

“Anna,” he says softly, coffee cup cradled in his hands. When she looks over he shrugs one shoulder. “What do we do?”

For a long moment she’s quiet, paused in the middle of the room, face turned to look at him for all her body faces away, her metal hand on the back of the chair. As ever she hears the hidden tone of his voice and her expression seems to soften.

“You really do trust me, don’t you?” she says. She seems… surprised and yet not. As though she knew on some level already, if not how utter and complete it was. Percy would have been more surprised had she not.

“With my life,” he says. “You saved it, after all.” It is, he thinks, the closest he can get to telling her he loves her since she forbade the words themselves.

Her eyes half-close as she lets her breath out. It’s the same close-to-fond expression she’s always worn when he’s provided a full answer simply. He’s gotten better at being straightforward just for the pleasure of seeing it more often. When her eyes open again, she’s smiling.

“What _you_ do,” she says, “is nothing. _I_ will keep us safe, Percy. I promised you that. Everything I do is towards that end.”

* * *

The next few days are eerily quiet. Percy knows not what to make of them except that when he looks to Anna she is calm, steady, sometimes softly smiling, a small anticipatory thing that he knows simply means _wait._

He tries to. Patience is something he has learned well since childhood but even that has been honed by Anders’ investigation. Learning to wait and to wait and to wait and to simply trust that Anna will do what is necessary, do what is right.

There is none he trusts as he does her after all and he knows she will do all she can to see them safe.

He wishes they did not have to wait, though. He wishes there were an easier, faster way than this, some way to remove Anders from their path so they had one less thing to worry about. With the ziggurat nearing completion, their set task almost complete, their future still uncertain once the Briarwoods are done with them, Percy would rather focus on the pressing issue of their imminent fate than whether that fate is to be cut abruptly short by a third party he can do nothing against. 

“Percy,” Anna says, as week’s end nears, the quiet still so terribly, concerningly calm. “Stop fretting. It will be fine.”

Some set of worry must still be clear in his face because she reaches out, metal hand cupping his jaw, her eyebrows rising in question.

“Don’t you trust me?” she asks.

That question has always been easy to answer. “With my life.”

Her lips are warm when they press against his and he can feel the smile she wears. “Good boy,” she says as she pulls back, her metal thumb running soothingly over his cheek. As ever he leans into the touch, presses a kiss to the heel of her metal hand before leaning forwards to kiss her again.

He’d not- he’d never usually dare but they have had to be so _careful_ since Anders started to pry and if they are not safe in Anna’s rooms he has to wonder if they are safe anywhere. He kisses her and with a sigh she kisses back, her metal thumb hard on his cheekbone, her teeth sharp against his lips and he’s hardly aware of the sound he makes but that he hears her laugh in response. 

“Stay here tonight.” Her voice is quiet, her words quick and he’d almost have missed it but that it is Anna and he always pays her the utmost attention. He lifts a hand, finds where her metal one still rests against his cheek. “The sopha,” she says. “We are still not entirely safe. But I’d rather have you near tonight.”

It is, he thinks, the closest she has ever come to saying that she loves him as he does her.

“Of course,” he says, pressing another kiss to her metal palm. “Of course.”

* * *

He is not sure what it is that wakes him but he wakes nonetheless, blinking at a dark and blurry and _familiar_ ceiling. He reaches blindly for his dressing gown pocket, for his glasses, shifting on the sopha to turn towards the room as he finds them and sets them on his nose and that is when he sees: the fire gone low, the door wide open, a man leaning over the desk and, in the alcove by Anna’s bedroom door, Anna herself.

In silence, Anna meets his eyes, lifts a glinting metal finger to her lips.

Percy swallows. Percy nods. Anna’s flesh hand clenches around something, her metal hand pointing at the figure by the desk and an incantation rings out. 

In a way that cannot possibly be natural, Professor Anders goes stock still.

“Nella,” Anna says quietly, Anders still frozen in place, and the old maidservant steps out of the shadows. “Be a lamb and fetch the Lady Briarwood, won’t you?”

With a speed belying her age, Nella vanishes out the door. Without fuss, Anna steps forward, flesh hand twisting in preparation to renew the spell, a coil of rope shrugged from her arm to her other hand. Percy, half risen from the sopha he’d made his bed, propped up on one elbow, adjusts his glasses. “Anna?”

The smile she gives him is proud, indulgent. “Sit yourself up, Percival. I’m sure Delilah will wish to speak to you as well. At the least, you must be vaguely presentable.”

As they wait, as Anders stares at them, frozen in anger, Anna ties him up. Percy pulls his dressing gown on but does not move from the sopha. He doesn’t entirely dare.

It is not long they have to wait before the Briarwoods arrive, Stonefell close behind them and a pair of guards for good measure. Percy can see, from how creased and untidy the guards’ cloaks are, that they must, like him, have been woken from slumber.

He’s not entirely awake, even with how startled he was from sleep, and misses Delilah’s demand to know what has happened, to know why Anders is tied up, but he does not miss Sylas crossing the room in a blur, dragging an unresisting Anders back towards his wife, his hand lifting Anders’ jaw in a way Percy knows all too well.

In the dim light from the candle Anna lit, from the gone-low fire, Percy can see as Anders swallows.

“Breaking into your chambers with unidentified papers in hand is certainly reason for suspicion,” Delilah is saying as Percy refocusses. “But I am _most_ curious to know why you were so prepared for his visit.”

“After certain recent events I felt it wise to set up spells to alert me should anyone untoward enter,” Anna says. “Just as I have for the labs below, to prevent meddling and disturbance.”

Delilah’s gaze flickers momentarily towards Percy, her eyebrow raising. 

“Anders has been interfering, repeatedly, in our work.” Anna’s voice is quick and sharp, dragging attention back to her, and Percy sees, perhaps even before she does, the flash of anger on Delilah Briarwood’s face at being so addressed. He goes to rise but Anna’s hand flashes out, a clear gesture for him to stay put, and he sinks back onto the sopha without a word. “He has been snooping,” she adds, “which may well be his job but for him to interrogate my assistant as he’s working, preventing useful progress and setting us back god knows how many weeks certainly contravenes orders I’m sure. Likewise his pages of useless questions - unless you wish us to overrun your deadline?”

“No,” Delilah says, voice and face cold. “We do not. Do you know why he suspected you so?”

Anna shrugs. “He hardly spoke to me and what he did say was rarely trustworthy.” Her hand darts out, gesturing to Percy. “My assistant on the other hand…”

Delilah’s face curves into a smile. “Percival? Any ideas?”

Percy blinks, hesitates, glances to Anna but she’s not looking at him instead staring down Sylas.

“He… claimed it was under your orders,” he says. “And- he would hint sometimes but never said at what. He said you forbade him saying it but that he could hint. He… he wanted me to know something, a threat, I think, and he- he wanted me to- to lie about A- about Doctor Ripley, or to turn on her and trust him instead. He- he tried to claim that she’s a traitor but- Lady Briarwood, we have no _reason_ to be. We rather like living.”

Delilah Briarwood laughs. “I am quite sure you do,” she says. “I am quite sure you do.”

Anders, eyes shining in anger, twists in Sylas’ grip but cannot get free. Even the hand over his mouth does not budge.

“I know he attempted to have servants smuggle incriminating papers in here. Thankfully, his attempts at my handwriting are pitiful.” Anna’s voice is scathing but something almost gleeful shines in her eyes as she speaks. “Percival identified them, you remember?”

“Yes. The odd papers you brought me last week.” Delilah’s voice is thoughtful. “Not your hand or young Percival’s and, worse, damaging to the project’s progress.”

 _Waste of our acid,_ Percy thinks, distantly, remembering Anna’s words after.

“A frame job?” It’s Sylas who speaks, brows raised.

“Perhaps, my love,” Delilah says. “Perhaps.”

“And if so,” Anna says, inclining her head, “The question then becomes-”

“Why would he frame you?”

Anna spreads her hands, metal and flesh both. “Either we are guilty of something such that he felt us acceptable targets, which I shall leave to your judgement, or we are innocent of it and someone-” she pins Anders with her glare, “-sought a scapegoat for something.”

The Briarwoods consider. Glance to each other. Glance to Anders, gone still and sagged in Sylas’ grip.

“Kerrion,” Delilah says, deadly quiet. “Search Byron’s chambers. Thoroughly.”

* * *

There is a hushed conference when the guards and Stonefell return, polished armour scraped and dented, a bundle of papers clenched in Stonefell’s fist. The entire time Anders has scarcely responded, Anna has stood tall by her desk and Percy rises slowly, moves to stand, moments off from trembling, by Anna’s side. 

He does not think it will go poorly. Anna, after all, has promised.

After long quiet minutes, after Delilah has looked over the papers herself, flicked through them one by one, her expression darkening with every page, she glances over to them. Anna, stood tall by her desk, Percy beside her.

“You have a job to do,” Delilah says, something warning in her tone. “In future, leave handling things like this to us.”

Anna bows her head, the edge of a smile tilting her lips, and Delilah gestures, the party moving to leave. The door _snicks_ shut behind them and for a while they stay still, Percy stood close by Anna’s side as they listen to the footsteps, fading away. 

Anders is gone. The Briarwoods have left. 

He thinks, quite simply, _We’re safe._

“Anna,” he says. When she looks at him she’s softly smiling, head tilted just a little. 

“I told you,” she said. “I would keep us safe.”

He does not have words for the surge of feeling that rushes through him but it is heady and strong, as strong as the sense of safety they now revel in, and he leans towards Anna, pressing his lips to hers without a ready thought. He pauses a moment, almost pulls back but for Anna’s pleased hum, her hand finding the back of his head and holding him there, and the mingled feelings - affection, relief, adoring love - surge together into desire. He groans against her lips as she licks into his mouth, parts their lips that he might kiss down her jaw to her neck, his hands finding the ties of her robe and waiting for her word.

“Anna,” he murmurs, soft against the line of her jaw. “Anna,” where neck meets shoulder. He cannot say _I love you._ That is not permitted him. Instead, he will say what else he can.

Anna’s hands find his hips, find his loose sleep shirt and ruck it up, flesh fingers and metal tracing across his abdomen, his sides, his hips, his back, tugging him closer, as clear an invitation as might be given without words. Percy undoes the ties, slips his hands beneath her robe to help slide it from her shoulders, kisses from jaw down her neck to her collarbones and down the bare stretch of skin before the neckline of her nightgown interrupts him. Through cloth he cups the curve of one breast, through cloth he finds the shape of it, through cloth he rolls one nipple between his fingers, his lips all the while at her neck and he hear-feels her moan, her hands pull him close, her hands sliding down to the waistband of his pyjamas.

“Percival.” Her tone is low, commanding, and Percy shivers, pressing closer to her, his fingers fumbling in fabric to lift the hem of her nightgown, to find the place between her legs to make her gasp, to slip one hand along the line of her hips and tug her close. Her own hands make short work of his pyjamas, waistband pushed low beneath his hips and he groans as she presses closer and his length is pressed between them. “Percival,” she says again, almost breathy as his fingers work, as he presses closer, as his lips trace a line down her throat. He wants to kiss, wants to suck, wants almost to bite but that he knows she won’t permit it. 

Instead, he nuzzles her neck, takes her hips in his hands and lifts her weight.

Anna _laughs;_ he doesn’t think he’s ever heard the sound, something pleased in a way he never suspected and it makes him giddy as he takes two steps towards a wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, because he is strong enough for this, just about, after how many buckets of _residuum_ he has had to haul, how much apparatus he has had to move, but he does not think he is strong enough to maintain it. Her hands are firm on his back, metal cool on one shoulder, flesh burningly warm on the other, and as he moves she shifts against him, sending jolts of pleasure through him. He cannot help his groan.

“Anna,” he murmurs, lips working against the skin of her neck, against her jaw, and as they reach the wall, Anna shifts, one hand reaching between them, taking him in firm grip and lining him up.

He looks up at her, her eyes bright, her mouth wide in a smile and in this moment she is _beautiful_ in a way Percy has never seen before. He groans, helpless, and with a pleased gasp she sinks onto him, his hips jolting with the unexpected pleasure of it. For a moment they stay there, settling, breathing hard against each other, Percy’s breaths damp against her neck, Anna’s ruffling his hair before she shifts, already impatient.

God but he loves that about her. 

He groans as she moves and he smiles and he moves too, taking advantage of her legs around his hips, the wall she’s braced against, to slip his hand between them once again, to touch her and startle a gasp from her. His fingers find her clit and circle, circle, and she shivers, her walls flexing around him and he groans and she groans and they move, a little awkward at first, the position one they’ve not practiced before but Percy has done all he can to learn what Anna likes and finds a rhythm that suits them both, her arms wrapping around him, metal fingers and flesh both digging into the skin of his back. 

It is not slow, this lovemaking, they are both of them too desperately wanting for that, the relief of their safety too strong, but it is not frantic either, simply eager, their sure security lending both of them a rush of energy and they move against each other at rapid pace. Anna’s lips press to Percy’s temple, alternating gasps as his fingers work, as his hips move, gasps, and “Yes, there, _there,_ good _boy,_ Percival,” and he thrives on the praise, nuzzling her neck and kissing, pressing as close to her as he can, moving his hips so as she matches him he goes as deep as he can, startling soft moans of pleasure from her.

It will not, he thinks, take long for either of them, and he redoubles his efforts, fingers circling, stroking, not just her clit but the sensitive skin around before returning, fingers newly slick with her pleasure. Her breaths come faster, her fingers dig into his skin, her legs tight around his waist and as he presses kisses to her neck he hears her breaths turn more to moans, feels her tightening around him and he thinks she is close and knows he is too.

“Anna,” he says, gasped out against her neck. _Love you,_ he thinks and presses a kiss there and another and another.

He thrusts, once, twice, thrice, and Anna moans, head tilting back against the wall, her fingers, metal and flesh both, digging into the skin of his back, her legs wrapped tight around his hips. He goes again, fingers working between them and feels as she shudders, as she shakes, as she clenches around him, her head tilted back, the soft ecstatic cry of her climax. With his face pressed to her neck he feels her moan as much as hears it, feels the vibration of her voice, the panting of her breath as he keeps working, fingers circling, hips moving. Her hand is soft in his hair.

 _“Good boy,_ Percival.”

He kisses her neck, licks up the salt-sweat of her skin, and god but he _wants,_ he is close and he presses against her, presses his face to her neck as he thrusts once, twice more, spilling into her with a helpless groan against her throat. 

Her hand is still soft in his hair as he comes back to himself, leaning against her, leaning against the wall, and her lips are soft against his temple and it makes him content in some indefinable way, the soft affection she’s showing. “Good boy,” she says again and he hums against her neck and nuzzles her skin. 

_Love you,_ he thinks. He wants, so very much, to be able to say it. Unable, he settles for holding her as tightly to him as he can, his arms around her midsection, to kissing and kissing, broad, open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach. 

“Mm,” she says, a soft hum, a pleased one. “Good. Well done.”

He smiles against her neck, kisses, and slowly regains his breath.

He does not want, entirely, to let her go, and she seems as she often is after sex, calmly, contentedly pleased where she rests against him. When, finally, he moves them from the wall, he lifts her again, her legs still looped around his waist, and carries her to her bed. He sets her down with ready care, finds a washcloth to clean them both up and pulls blankets over her before slipping under them beside her, his dressing gown and glasses set to one side. 

She is, he sees, already half-asleep as he settles himself beside her but her arm hooks over his waist, warm against his bare skin, and pulls him close. He considers, briefly, repairing his clothes situation before, tiredly, kicking his pyjama bottoms off from where they’re halfway down him already. 

He cannot be bothered, he decides. He is tired, he is comfortable, and he and the one he loves are safe. He settles in to sleep beside Anna, curled and content, and he does not dream.

* * *

When he wakes, Anna has already risen. She’s across the room from him, standing in front of her mirror, coiling her hair up into it’s usual style, her blouse and trousers for the day already set out on the chair by the wardrobe. She moves, even this early in the morning, with a tidy efficiency, her metal hand as deft as flesh as she pushes hairpins into the dark mass of her bun, glinting in the weak morning sunlight same as the pins, as the buttons on her waiting blouse. He reaches into his dropped dressing gown to find his glasses and slides them on.

He stays, mostly unmoving, in her bed, simply watching, simply because he can, because, at last, they are _safe_ all due to her strong certainty, her decisive action. Because Anna has never yet broken her promise to him.

She dresses with swift, precise movements, nightgown shed, underthings donned, blouse and trousers pulled on without fuss. She tuts a moment as a thread gets caught on the tip of one metal finger before plucking a scalpel from her dressing table to cut it.

Percy thinks - Percy _knows_ \- that he could stay quite contentedly watching Anna as long as she permitted it.

“Percy,” she says when she sees him half-awake and watching. It’s almost scolding, almost fond, both at once, and he smiles at that alone. “You can’t mean to stay there all day,” she says, gesturing to the door. “Go on, get dressed. I’ll be at my desk when you return.”

It’s with a mild grumble he assents, pushing covers back and rising, pulling his dressing gown on, his shed pyjama bottoms. He doesn’t go immediately, though. He doesn’t entirely want to, too soothed by her presence and her company and the safety she has brought them to want to leave. For a moment he stands there, content in her presence, simply watching. 

“Percy,” she says, more firmly now. 

“All right,” he says. He steps forward, tilts his head to hers and kisses the corner of her mouth, his hands gentle on her hips. When he pulls back to look at her again, there’s a small smile to her face. “I’ll be back momentarily.”

“See that you are,” she says, as he heads for the door. “We have work to do.” 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! If there's specific moments that you especially liked (or didn't) please leave a comment!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ripley likes it when things go her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second of the Ripley POV chapters. Be warned. Additionally, the final scene has smut - if this isn't something you care for, skip ahead when you get to the line "Their faces are close enough she can feel his exhales on her skin;". You'll be safe to resume reading at the line "For a little while they lay there, breaths evening out."

Things are peaceful for the next few days. Even as the Briarwoods are wary now when it comes to her - wary that she knew what they did not, wary that one of their own and most trusted proved traitorous, wary that their task nears completion and a myriad of fine threads are weaving towards finality - things are peaceful. They are let do their work without fuss. No one questions them, no one bothers them; they are left to do their work in peace all hours of day or night. If anyone notices that Percy stays in her rooms more nights than not, no one comments.

For all Anders’ meddling, Percy seems less shaken than ever, more certain. Any worries she had at what Anders might have said to him, any realisations he might have had or things overheard, are rapidly eased with his continued loyalty, his unconcerned faith in her. 

He doesn’t seem to  _ need _ affection quite as he did before for all he still seeks it. She doesn’t mind giving it him, not while he’s so focussed, not while he’s doing such good work. A reward is warranted for that and Percy is attentive as ever, all his fantastic focus in the labs pointed precisely where she wants when they’re alone. 

Still, it is necessary at times to remind him of his place, to remind him to listen, and he takes correction without hesitation, without pause. 

It seems, she thinks, that he doesn’t want to let her down.

* * *

Work steadies. The delays on acid and whitestone vanish entirely without Anders’ meddling and with Percy’s project to reclaim some of the acid and to make the most of the excess  _ residuum _ shards they start to catch up to their goals at rapid pace. 

“At this rate,” Percy says one morning. “We might even be ahead of schedule again.” He lifts the hand not holding his coffee, crosses his fingers, taps the wooden desk he’s leaning on. It’s a small habit he’s picked up from gods know where,  _ cross your fingers, touch wood. _ As superstitions go it’s not the worst one he could tend towards but it is a habit she’s going to have to make him break. Over-reliance on such things always ruins scientific method.

“Perhaps,” she says, setting down her mug to double-check the charts. “We might even have time enough to resume some of the other projects, all things going well.”

She doesn’t even have to offer him any affection that day; his face brightens and he applies himself to work with all the dedication usually reserved for desperation. 

* * *

The removal of Anders really has wrought a change, she realises. It was one thing to remove the main obstacle to her own escape, another thing entirely to see the effect it’s had on Percy. He’s still fearful of the Briarwoods - and with good reason - but in all else his fear has ebbed back. Were he not so perfectly obedient to her it could almost be frustrating but Percy is loyal to her and Percy is dedicated to her and she has no need to fear on that front.

And without terror tending him towards mistakes, he’s calmer, more confident, less clingy. It’s a blessed relief at points that she doesn’t need to keep an eye on his anxiety, for all he seeks her out most evenings. And, when he does seek her company, it’s less needy. He offers affection but doesn’t ask it in return, is more carefully asking than pleadingly wanting when he seeks her bed. There’s less a hint of desperation, for all he still so plainly wants to please, and the relief in his eyes every time she permits him her company is gratifying in it’s own way.

“Good boy,” she tells him as they settle into sleep and she can feel the smile he gives against her neck, his strange little sense of pride at earning it. She’s content to let him have it. While he’s like this, asking so little and still so determined to please, doing such good work, she wants to keep him so. He’s far more useful that way.

* * *

“What  _ is _ going on out there?” Percival says one day, standing to look out the window behind her desk at whatever is clattering in the courtyard below. Ripley stands to join him, a hand on his arm to restrain him from anything drastic. Below, Lady Briarwood is directing things out to a carriage, her husband most likely standing in the shadowed shelter of the castle, but Ripley doesn’t need to know that to answer. 

“Some part of their plan,” she says simply. “Politicking in Emon, I believe. They want to make absolutely certain we won’t be interfered with as we near completion.”

Percival nods slowly, consideringly. With how calm he’s been of late he’s almost like how he was before, readily confident in his own ability but nonetheless willing to defer to her if no one else outside his family.

“Are they both going?” he asks, curiously. “Including Sylas? It’s not a short journey.”

Emon’s the opposite side of the continent from them but it’s just like Percival to politely understate the matter. It always amuses her just how much he can understate things while simultaneously judging the subject matter. It’s the kind of scathing humour she enjoys and she’s not unaware that Percival has only become more prone to it since they first started working together.

“Both of them,” she confirms. “I presume Delilah has some way to preserve her husband; she’s as obsessive about his well-being as he is hers.”

For all the quiet distaste always on Percival’s face when he sees the Briarwoods, there’s a small curve to his lips nonetheless at that. 

“Well,” he says. “They are married. One would expect them to at least care to some degree.”

“Not every partnership is based on something as risky as  _ love, _ Percival.”

“No,” he agrees, turning his head to look at her, small half-smile still on his lips. “But the best ones are, I think.”

* * *

When the Briarwoods leave, clattering out of the courtyard in their carriage, Percival sits taller, neater. What little strain has lingered in his shoulders since Anders was removed seems gone entirely and he seems comfortable in his seat and in his skin as he hasn’t been since- well, since she struck her deal with the Briarwoods and his family was destroyed.

“How long will they be?” he asks when they meet at the end of the day in the stairway, he coming from the lab below, she from the one in the far wing. “Assuming roughly a week’s journey there and again back even with good weather but if they’re staying and politicking-”

She’d mind this, the curiosity at something other than his work but with how it’s reduced his stress she too is interested in just how much they can get done before the Briarwoods return and ruin things again. 

“They plan to stay for about a week,” she says. “That may yet change but with any luck they’ll be gone roughly three weeks and return with only good news.”

Percy purses his lips a little, frowning, but he accepts the information.

“Percy,” she says gently. “With any luck, this will soon all be over. Our work with them will be done and-” She spreads her hands, gestures. “Either they will seek to retain our services or we will be expected to make our own way.” She smiles at him, reassuring. “And you know that I will keep you safe.”

A tremble runs through him though far less obvious than his fear has been in a long while. “Yes,” he says, half a sigh. “Yes.” His eyes are bright and intense on hers. “Thank you, Anna.”

She’s grown used to his intensity; he’s always been capable of single-minded focus, it’s only over these past few years it’s been more reliably pointed at her or what she asks of him and she smiles, claps his shoulder with her hand before turning to head upstairs.

“Come along,” she says. “Let’s go over the reports and make a plan for the next few weeks. We’re catching up to our original goals; at this rate we’re going to need new side-projects.”

“Mm,” he hums. “I was considering automata today; a few simple ones could make some parts of the process rather easier.”

As they ascend he rambles his thoughts, some brilliantly insightful but most ones she’s heard or considered herself before, and she thinks fleetingly that, but for his loyalty to her, he is almost alike to how he was before.

Brilliant. Clever.  _ Useful. _

And now: hers.

* * *

She’s able to leave him more to his own devices those next three weeks. He’s attentive to his work, has regained much of the energy that made him a brilliant student before, made her consider that he would be an excellent colleague in future and without the Briarwoods breathing down her neck she too is free to work more as she pleases. 

It’s… oh but it’s lovely to pull out old notebooks and folders, to look over old notes and older projects in the quiet privacy of her office while Percy ably handles the lab work she’s sick to death of. And Percy is always polite as well; pausing a moment before letting himself in, knocking if the door is locked unless it is late enough at night he knows her to be sleeping and to simply use his own key. Any projects she doesn’t want him looking at she always has time to return to their place on the shelves, refreshed by their contents enough that drab and dull as the current lab work may be, it is at least easier to endure it.

Percy, too, seems to find some freedom in it all; he spends some lunchtimes in his own rooms or working still in the lab below, though he returns reliably to her rooms most every evening. Even if there is no new work to report on once dinner is done, he still seems to find comfort in her presence and the irony of it would make her laugh were it not so very useful.

“Good boy,” she says when he tidies away their empty coffee mugs, tidies up her desk and makes sure the fire is banked enough to last against the chill, to warm her room on its other side through the heavy stone wall of the chimney breast. She rises from her chair, setting her book on the side table to pick up again tomorrow and extends him a hand. “Come along.”

He follows her to her room and to her bed with an almost endearing ease and when finally they curl to sleep he seeks close comfort each time. It’s reassuring that, even in the absence of his fear, he still needs that.

* * *

He seeks close comfort more when the Briarwoods return. There’s no anger or frustration in it - if anything, they seem pleased and when she’s called to Delilah’s study to discuss everything appears to have gone swimmingly - but it doesn’t stop Percy from worrying.

“Percival,” she reminds him. “You don’t need to worry. Everything is going perfectly well.”

He doesn’t remove his face from where it presses to her neck and shoulder though and even as her hands rub soothingly over his arms where they fold across her front, holding her in embrace, he’s unwilling to let go. She sighs.

“Is it because they were gone?” she asks and he nods against her neck, rims of his glasses cool against her skin. “Percy,” she says with a sigh. “It’s likely to not be their only trip. Likely they’ll be making periodic trips until this all is over, to ensure no interference.”

He sighs a tremulous breath let out against her shoulder but seems to relax at that at least a little, his arms loosening around her midsection.

“This isn’t like you,” she says with a frown. “They’re interfering less in our work than they have since- well, practically since we started working with them; you have less to fear from them than you ever have before.”

Percy’s head moves again against her shoulder; with how he’s relaxed it takes her a moment to realise he’s nodding. Slowly, he lifts his head.

“I know,” he says. “But- with them gone-” He lets out a long breath, rests his chin on her shoulder. “It was almost like before. For a little while, I could almost pretend.”

She turns at that, lifting one hand to touch his cheek. He leans into her metal grip with ease. “Percival,” she says. “What have I told you about the problems of lying to oneself?”

His lips twist in a wry smile. “That if you’re pretending for one thing, lying about one thing, how do you know you’re not lying to yourself about others and invalidating your work.”

She pats his cheek, once, twice. “Exactly.”

The tension in how he’s holding himself eases, his small wry smile remains. 

“If this has you so worried,” she says quietly. “Perhaps it might soothe your mind to spend the evening in your own rooms. There, you’ll have less to worry about.”

* * *

He learns well. Even with his returned anxiety, he doesn’t let it fluster his work again; he is attentive to his duties, quick and quiet in his responses, no expression of his fractious worry or anxious fretting. The night in his own rooms does him good; he does not cling so closely again, not so obviously. 

Sometimes, the best hand is a gentle and carefully applied one. 

She knows it is not  _ only _ this - she knows her work too well. This is the result of many things. Of the training she worked on him while Anders hounded them, yes, but now with stress so reduced it is easier for him to make conclusions and to hold to them. Without worry to hound his every step he seeks his goals more clearly and his goal, she well knows, is closeness to her, in work, in proximity - in all things, if he can, as long as it means his safety.

And, as he’s so useful and so loyal, she is happy to ensure it.

“May I stay?” he asks in the evening, quiet and gentle, waiting with one hand on the low back of the small armchair he usually sits in as though to go. If she refuses him, he will.

Slowly, she looks up properly from her book, tilts her head, offers a smile. 

“I think so,” she says. “Tonight.”

He smiles then as though he would like to kiss her. Later, when they settle in for bed, she lets him.

* * *

Work continues apace; their continued achievements keep the Briarwoods at bay and while Percy does not relax as he had in their absence he is more attentive to his work while they stay far away. At times he glances to her as though for reassurance but it is far more fleeting now.

“I don’t like it,” he says quietly some evenings. “I just wish we knew what we were to  _ do _ after this.”

“We’ll find out in time,” she says idly, turning the page of her book. “Either they will ask us to stay on or we shall take our leave.”

He’s quiet at that and when she looks up at him there is a downward curl to his mouth, a crease to his brow. 

“Do you think they’ll let me?” he asks quietly. “Given what they’ve done?”

She sighs, sets down her book and leans forwards. “It has been almost five years,” she points out. “And in all that time, you have done them no damage at all - indeed, you have helped me to serve them to my utmost.” He does not look comforted. “Besides,” she says, leaning back into her chair. “You know perfectly well what they’re capable of and they know that you know that. If they have any sense they should know they have no need to threaten you to silence.”

He huffs the driest laugh she has ever heard from him at that. “That is true,” he admits. “If I do anything to harm them, here or anywhere else, I doubt even you’d be able to protect me from them.” His mouth twists. “I won’t do something that puts you in harm’s way. Not again.”

Unspoken are the words:  _ I owe you too much to risk that. _

* * *

At first, it was strange to wake so frequently with company; in honesty she’s since become almost used to it. Percy curls against her carefully, never restrictive in how his hands gently rest at her waist, his face tucks to her neck and shoulder. He’s content to sleep behind her, pressed between her body and the wall, excepting those few times he is truly shaken in some way when instead he sleeps with his back to the room, his body curled around her, his face buried in her hair as though if he hides himself against her he can hide them both from the world.

It’s almost endearing in its naivety. 

She rises before him, more often than not. Percy is hardly lazy but he’s never much been an early riser; though he wakes when she rises he is content to stay in bed, dozing or quietly watching, a soft half-awake smile on his face.

She is not unaware that her bed, rather like her chambers, is one of the few places he ever wears that expression. 

“Come along,” she says, rapping metal knuckles against his temple once she’s dressed for the day. “We have work to do, Percival.”

Out of sheer necessity, space has been made in her chest of drawers for some of his clothes. When Ripley calls him to order he groans but rises and dresses without complaint, leaning to kiss her cheek before they head to work. 

She doesn’t refuse the affection but his insistence on it always strikes her as bordering on obsessive. She might even mind it, were it not so clear a mark of his loyalty; he’s as dedicated to her near as much as the Briarwoods seem to be each other and she has seen first hand just what Delilah Briarwood will do for sake of her husband. 

“Good boy,” she says in place of any of that. “Where shall we start today?”

* * *

“We’ll be leaving again in a few weeks,” Delilah says, when Ripley arrives in her office for the weekly meeting. There’s a piece of correspondence in her hands, a piece of heavy cream parchment, the broken seal marked with the crest of Uriel Tal’Dorei. “With how things went last time I doubt we have much to worry about. You’re still on schedule?”

“Ahead of it,” Ripley says proudly. “Percival gained us a few day’s leeway with his work in your last absence; I suspect he’ll do the same this time as well.”

Delilah’s quiet smile widens. “Wonderful,” she says. “On our return we shall have to discuss the matter of your continued employment; all things going well we may have further jobs for you - if you’re interested?”

Their return, Ripley knows, will be very close to the final deadline and she has never liked discussing further employment with so little time between jobs. Historically, it has been a sure marker of someone trying to force her into a lesser position; half the reason she took her original position in Whitestone was because it was guaranteed for several years and her application responded to a full month and a half before commencement. 

“I’m not uninterested,” she replies honestly. “And if the pay remains as good I see no reason not to consider it - as long as I can retain Percival’s services?”

Delilah’s gaze flickers past Ripley to where Percy stands, quiet and unobtrusive, by the door. 

“He’s been such a help so far,” she says magnanimously. “I don’t see why not.”

* * *

The Briarwoods head off on a foggy morning; she stands with Percival at the main gates as their carriage leaves. Ripley doesn’t watch the carriage. She watches Percy. 

It’s barely perceptible, his relaxation as the carriage disappears down the way towards town and away, but she knows her Percival well.

“Back to work,” she says gently. “Let us see how much further ahead of our targets we can get; the better we do the more pay and freedoms we can negotiate for.”

He half-laughs at that, as they make their way inside. “You can negotiate for,” he says. “You know I don’t do well interacting with them.”

_ Don’t do well- _ an understatement of  _ lock up in terror and need several moments to find the words. _ With the Briarwoods, at least, his usual wit and eloquence escapes him entirely. It would be exasperating but for how it reinforced his reliance on her in the face of them. 

Besides, she’s not entirely sure she wants to negotiate. She has several ideas of how to extricate herself from the Briarwoods, from their cult and their god, and a fair few include ways to extricate Percival as well. 

“You’re going to have to learn one day,” she says as they start the day’s work. “You cannot let yourself be controlled by fear forever, Percival.”

The look he throws her for that is as doubtful as it should be. She may be ever-frustrated by his fearful anxiety but as long as it persists it strengthens his loyalty to her as little else does. 

“Come along,” she says, reaching out to touch his arm. He hums and leans into the contact for just a moment before remembering they’re in an open hallway; even with no one visibly around he’s well aware it’s too much a risk to show reaction even to that little a touch.

“I know,” he says wryly. “We’ve work to do.”

* * *

Reports are reliably laid out neatly on her desk when she returns. If Percy leaves her rooms late at night due to sleeplessness he never wakes her but there is always the additional report there in the morning, ready for her to read. With the Briarwoods gone it happens less often than it might but still frequent enough, even that first week the Briarwoods are absent, to be a trend.

Percival, it seems, has learned every expectation well; without the Briarwoods to shake his focus he is more exact than ever.

He sits on the edge of her bed that evening, his dressing gown already hung on a peg, watching her prepare for bed. He’s been like this more often lately, quietly watching, rarely asking. He seems content with little affection for all that his work has been of such quality that, in earlier days, she’d have given him plenty of affection to ensure it. That he doesn’t seek it so clearly nor require it is helpful but she thinks, also, that it cannot hurt to provide a reward for such excellent behaviour. 

Besides, it can provide an excellent test of all she’s worked to achieve with him.

He looks up readily when her hand takes his chin, her thumb just barely stroking his lower lip. His posture is open as he watches her, one wrist balanced on his knee, that hand holding his glasses.

“Do not think,” she says quietly, “That your recent hard work has gone unnoticed.”

His gaze flickers downward, almost embarrassed, and she firms her grip, her thumb digging into his lip, lifting his chin. His mouth falls slightly open; she feels the warm huff of his breath against her skin.

“You have been working,” she continues, curious enough about the outcome of this to continue the path, “so much harder than usual and you have asked so little. Are you surprised that I might think you deserving of reward?”

“Yes,” he says frankly but his eyes are fixed on her face, pupils so wide and dark his iris is a fine, ice-pale ring against the sclera. She smiles. 

“Well,” she says, shifting her shoulders under her dressing gown. “I do think you’ve earned a reward - unless you wish to debate the matter?”

He shakes his head but not so hard as to dislodge her thumb. Instead, he kisses it. “As ever,” he says softly, eyes fixed on her face. “I defer to you.”

“Good boy,” she says and moves her hand to lift his wrist off his knee, to sit on his lap facing him. Percy’s eyes widen still further; he blinks and replaces his glasses on his face.

“Anna-” he says. He swallows, hesitant.

“A reward,” she almost pointedly reminds him, stroking a hand down his cheek before moving to his waist and shifting on his lap. “Is something for you to enjoy.”

Their faces are close enough she can feel his exhales on her skin; sat as she is on his lap she can feel his growing reaction through the pyjama bottoms he wears to sleep.

“Percy,” she says, lowly, just for him. “How do you want to enjoy this reward?”

He swallows. His eyes stay fixed on hers, unwavering, and he leans the most minute bit closer, tongue darting out to lick his lips. 

“I want-” he says, breathed out against her mouth but he pauses, hesitant, pulling back and she cups his face with her hand.

“This once,” she says with a smile, “you may  _ have.  _ As  _ you _ would like it.”

He groans, wraps his arms around her as he hides his face against her collarbones, and then he twists beneath her, rolling them sideways until she’s beneath him, lain at an angle across the bed. She might mind this under other circumstances, him taking charge, but not now, not when she has decided to give him this, when this is as much the reward she told him it is as to see what he will do. 

She feels decidedly smug when it is his lips that move first, attentive against her skin, seeking to give pleasure before taking any for all that his free hand soon moves to the tie of her dressing gown, the waistband of his pyjamas, to free them from what little they each wear. She is glad she considered this idea before getting into pyjamas; it saves the kerfuffle and lets Percy get right to it.

Get right to  _ her, _ in specific. He’s attentive to her, paying little attention to himself, his lips making their way from her mouth, her jaw, her neck, down her collarbones to the sensitive skin of one breast and then the other until she arches a little into his touch. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t wait to ask - he has, it seems, taken her words to heart and though his gaze remains fixed on her as he rises up, he doesn’t hesitate to continue.

Honestly, it’s rather nice not to have to encourage or give direction and Percy is well-trained enough in what she likes that she doesn’t much have to worry he’ll misstep.

He has one hand braced on the mattress so he stays above her but his other, now finished getting them both unclothed, moves to her hip, up her side, to tease one nipple as he mouths at the other before his lips make their way to her sternum, down her stomach to between her legs.

There’s no point to hiding the pleased gasp when he licks a stripe along her, to her myriad reactions as he works her with his tongue and honestly even beyond the pleasure she’s just pleased that her assessment has proven so true. When it comes to her, Percy is so dedicated that even given the choice he puts her first and, point proven to herself, she reaches down to find his hair, his cheek, the line of his face to his chin where he rests between her legs.

“Your reward,” she reminds him, half laughing as she tugs him up by the jaw. He looks sheepish and it’s  _ delightful, _ honestly, that even now, even given leave to do as he prefers, his preference, it seems, is first to please her. 

He looks down at her from where he’s now braced above her, pleased but seemingly uncertain where to go next and she suppresses a sigh and hooks a leg around his hips.

“Percival,” she says and he sighs, half a groan, before his head falls forward towards hers, before he buries his face in her neck and  _ moves. _

He thrusts in, filling her, but does not do as he might, were he anyone else, had he not spent so long trained to her preferences. He pauses; she can feel the muscles of his abdomen fluttering as he restrains himself from moving immediately, his head bowing back to her skin as he waits for even the smallest sign she wants him to continue. Decidedly, she shifts her hips against him. 

“Percival,” she says in reminder. Reward this may be but she will not be  _ teased. _

But then, it seems Percy has no intention of that. He is, as ever, attentive, dedicated. Seeking her pleasure before his own. He draws out with a kiss to her sternum, pushes back in with a groan, one hand braced on the mattress, the other journeying between them until it finds her clitoris. It’s always a little awkward like this, even with his deft hands, but his fingers move and his hips do and she lifts her other leg around him, pulling him closer so he groans against her neck, equal parts heard and felt.

He’s braced above her still but it’s not quite enough, the mattress lowering beneath his hand so as to set off his angle. When he thrusts in the next time it’s with force and with her legs wrapped as they are around his hips, much of her back half-lifted, she slips back several inches. Percy follows, half-crawling between her knees. His hand relocates from the mattress to the headboard, bracing him above her at a better height, a better angle as he withdraws, his other hand still between them, circling her clit. He bows his head to her skin, his lips grazing one sensitive nipple, the skin of one breast and she hums in pleasure, canting her hips up towards him again and he groans.

“Anna,” he says, half a gasp, half a question. “Anna-”

“Percy,” she says, perhaps breathier than she intends but no less intent. “Come on.”

He stops pausing. Stops asking. Does only as she has so clearly indicated and things become a slide of motion and pleasure, his thrusts filling her, his fingers at her clit speeding a slow build of pleasure to something more and she could guess dismissively why - that given a reward he has not quite the control to make himself last - but honestly she doesn’t care to last right now, with such clear indication of Percy’s position in this matter. She pulls him closer with her legs, with her arms since risen to embrace him, one hand in his hair as she pulls him to kiss her, and she can still faintly taste herself on his lips. 

“Good boy,” she says against his mouth and his eyes close, his efforts redouble, pleasure spiking as his fingers move, circling, circling, as he thrusts, her hips lifting to his until he hits at the right angle. With her moan he tries again and again, getting it right more often than not, until her legs half-spasm as she comes, pulling him as far into her as possible, her arms pulling him down towards her and his hips flex once, twice more before he too collapses.

“Anna,” he says against her neck, mouthing a kiss there. When he says her name again it’s half a sigh and she runs her hand through his hair.

“Good boy.”

For a little while they lay there, breaths evening out. When Ripley turns her head to look at Percy his eyes are half-closed behind his glasses. They shoot wide open when she unwraps her legs from around him though and he rolls without ceremony to one side, toward the wall so he’s no longer half-crushing her. 

“Good boy,” she says again, reaching one hand to stroke her knuckles across his cheek. He hums, nuzzling into the touch, borderline needy as he sometimes is after sex.

It takes a few moments more before he gathers himself together enough to pull covers over them both, curling on his side between her and the cold stone wall, his hands resting gently against her skin.

“Sleep?” he asks, voice already heavy with it.

“Mm,” she says, stroking his cheek again. “We have work in the morning.”

His small smile is unmistakable, as is the way he tilts his head, his lips moving to kiss her knuckles before curling closer, nuzzling not her hand but her cheek.

“Good night, then,” he says, voice soft. “Sleep well.”

It doesn’t take long for his breaths to even out and slow and Ripley is given peace to think, to consider just how well that went. Percy can be needy, she knows, seeks affection most especially when unsettled, likes her company and the reassurance it brings him enough he will do most anything she asks. She has long known, too, that while he may often ask he will never push when she is absolute, will never ask again when firmly refused, that for her he will give and give as long as she asks. She is, she thinks, at this point perhaps even dearer to him than family.

She takes his glasses from his face, reaching to set them on the bedside cabinet so he doesn’t break them in his sleep. Percy, trusting as he is, doesn’t even stir. Instead, he stays curled close against her, one hand splayed over her stomach, his face pressed to her cheek. He knows full well she’s not about to let anything take root. One day early on in this she’d had to soothe some fractious concern of his with the knowledge she keeps precautions in place; the relief on his face had been mixed with no small part of wistfulness. She supposes she half-understands - with his family gone it makes sense he might miss them in their absence and seek to rebuild it in some part but she has never much cared for children and Percy, clever as he is, knows full well the risks presented by any child of his being reared in the shadow of the ones who killed his family. But she suspects it does not stop him quietly hoping - another reason, she thinks, to stay in the Briarwoods’ employ. They are little threat to her but fear of them ensures some topics Percival will never so much as dare to bring up. 

Beside her, Percy rests, his breaths long and slow and even, his face smoothed of his usual small frown in sleep. She suspects, after this, he will be all the more eager to do his utmost, to prove his worth and his usefulness. Reward or no, he seeks affection and intimacy as much as physical proximity and doing well in his work has reliably brought him that from her. 

And, with that reassuring thought, Anna Ripley settles into sleep herself.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Feel free to come and yell at me on [tumblr](http://essayofthoughts.tumblr.com/) or leave a comment telling me what parts you like best!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facing fears is never easy.

She has faced a lot this past year. She has faced far more than she ever thought she might.

It still shakes her to her core to hear the Briarwoods’ names again.

They make their way to Vasselheim but Cassandra finds herself distracted as much by the knowledge of the Briarwoods’ impending visit as by what is going on around them. It’s dangerous - her distraction almost does them harm against the hydra, when working for the Take. None of it is quite as bad as the Dread Emperor, as the Underdark, but it’s not fun and not something best done when distracted.

But Cass can’t help it. These are the people who killed her family and Uriel, good man though he is, seems set on a path to make the exact same mistake her parents made. 

She hopes what little warning she was able to offer has made him wary. That, despite her youth, despite the hard to prove nature of her words, he trusts that she’s filling the role he assigned her - assigned all of Vox Machina. To watch for threats to him and to Emon and to all of Tal’Dorei. 

After all the Briarwoods did in Whitestone, Cassandra cannot imagine them to be anything but.

* * *

When they return from Vasselheim, Seeker Assum is waiting to see them.

“I’m aware this is short notice,” he says. “But I wished to speak to Cassandra regarding the conversation she had with Uriel prior to your departure.”

The others still where they’d been shifting around, chatting quietly and passing plates of food. The sudden quiet is striking. 

“Ducky?” Vax asks. 

“If they already know I see no reason not to discuss with them present,” Assum says. “Given that, all going well, I hope to extend an invitation to you all to the palace for some time in the next week.”

“Do you want us to leave?” Vex’s voice is closer than expected; when Cass glances to her she and Vax have both moved nearer. 

She half shakes her head, half nods. Sighs and swallows.

“You might as well all stay,” she says. “You’d all want me to tell you afterwards anyway.”

The silence doesn’t become any less oppressive. If anything, the sense of it increases as everyone turns their attention to Assum where he sits across from her and to she herself.  _ Ducky _ is right, she thinks - she wishes she could duck away from this too.

“We have been… quite curious,” Assum says, “As to how you obtained the information you claimed to have about the Briarwoods. It has been hard, even for me, to verify most anything about them, and so I am  _ quite _ curious as to how you obtained your own information.”

“Which part?” she says quietly. “That the Briarwoods’ claim on Whitestone is false or what I told Uriel about Lord Briarwood?”

_ “All _ of it.” Assum’s voice, though quiet, brooks no argument. 

She glances to the others - Keyleth and Tiberius have edged around to one side, Scanlan and Grog on the other. The twins are nearer by, within arms reach. They’re all looking almost as wary as Assum and it worries her, concerns her and she wishes she knew better what to do. Wishes it were easier - that the Council had had sense enough to wonder and to  _ ask. _ So she starts there.

“I don’t know why it’s such a surprise,” she says, drawing on old hauteur and pride, sitting tall as Mother had always taught. “I am Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo, seventh child and third daughter of Frederick and Johanna de Rolo of Whitestone. And to my knowledge, I’m the last of the main branch of the family. Possibly all of it; if the Briarwoods still hold Whitestone after what they did I have to wonder if any of the cadet branches bothered to stake their claims - or if they were left alive to do so.” She lifts her chin. “You ask how I would know when from my name I might well be expected to know what happened to  _ my own family.” _

“The Briarwoods,” Assum says, quietly, calmly, “Have claimed the family died of plague.”

“Then they’ve lied,” Cassandra says. Disgust and fear and anger roil in her gut. “It would not be the first time; they’re very good at it. They lied to my parents as well and my older siblings. I only escaped what happened because-” She pauses and swallows. She  _ will not _ cry - but there’s a lump like lead in her throat that promises she’s going to. “I used to go exploring. The castle had old secret passages. So around halfway into the welcome feast I snuck away. I didn’t realise what had happened until I came out of a passage to see blood everywhere.”

Assum’s gaze is unflinching but he makes no move to interrupt or question and Cassandra blinks, blinks again when her vision blurs and stares instead at the grain of the table.

“They waited,” she says. “For Father Reynal and Keeper Yennen to return back to town. But I think they burned the Zenith and I don’t know what they might have done to the Lady’s Chamber once I left. My family they locked up below, in the cells. Ripley - Doctor Ripley, she was an assistant to Father and tutored Percy, my brother Percival, after he outstripped the usual schooling - she helped them. Somehow- I don’t know how - she kept Percy out of the cells. Made him think that perhaps he could help them.” She scoffs. “As though the Briarwoods would let him. I think- I think after he failed, after the rest of them- I think she killed him. He wasn’t with her in Stilben.”

“You may want to clarify a few points,” Assum says. Cassandra doesn’t know if she  _ can; _ it’s been hard enough to share this much. She can feel the tears beading at her lashes, blurring her vision, feel the lump of lead in her throat growing heavier, growing into a sob, and she digs her nails into the table until she feels one break.

“They  _ killed them,” _ she says. She doesn’t look up but she can feel her voice trembling. She’s not sure if it’s upset or anger or both as the memories skitter across her mind. Blood, burning, bodies splayed loose-limbed in cells after they’d been hauled off the bloodied table. Percival, speaking softly each time he visited, fleeing those times he went to visit and heard screams, fleeing long before he could see who it was was causing them. She forces herself to continue, to speak as fast as she can so it is said and it is done, so she can focus on new plans rather than old pain.

“Five years ago. They killed the cousins and the courtiers and half of the servants. They slaughtered the guards or corrupted them to work for them instead. And they put the family in cells, let Percival question them and when he could get nothing from them, Doctor Anna Ripley  _ tortured them to death.” _ She lifts her gaze but can barely see Assum through the tears. “If my family died to plague, Seeker, then it was a plague of blades and of dark magic and of whatever undead  _ thing _ Sylas Briarwood is that blades barely hurt him when Julius tried to fight back.” She swallows. Lowers her head again and keeps her eyes open and fixed on the table - not on a face which might flicker to one of her family, not closed so the memories might become too much.

For a while, there is quiet. No one speaks, not Assum and not one of Vox Machina. Cass, grateful, takes the time to compose herself. The memories do not want to quiet and she takes several long moments to slow her breathing. She can still feel her heart racing nonetheless and she wishes she knew how to slow it.

“That is your answer,” she says eventually. “You wanted to know how I got the information I gave to Uriel. That’s how. I was  _ there.” _

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t entirely dare to. Doesn’t glance to one side or the other, where her friends stand arrayed around her, watching and by this stage likely wary. None of them much talk about their pasts - they don’t need to. What matters to them all is what is  _ now, _ that they are Vox Machina and close friends and that they have fought many fights together. They don’t discuss their pasts because she has little doubt they all have something like this hidden there - something they do not want to talk of.

“I see,” Assum says eventually. There’s a long pause before he speaks again; when Cass  _ does _ dare to look up he looks pensive. Thoughtful. “I shall take this all into consideration and see what we might be able to do. As it is, they are very serious accusations to make about people considered friends to the Sovereign.”

“What are we, then?” Vax asks. “Chopped liver?”

“No.” Assum’s gaze is quiet but unwavering. “You are also friends. That is why this is being taken so seriously.”

* * *

He leaves some few minutes later, a promise to investigate and an invitation to the feast in a week’s time left with them. Cass isn’t entirely sure it’s enough. Even if they’re prepared what will it do if there are traitors? If the Briarwoods already have a foothold? What do the Briarwoods even want here - was Whitestone merely a stepping stone on the way to this or is this politicking for another purpose?

Perhaps, if she’d stayed longer, she’d know now. Or, perhaps, she’d be dead, like all the rest.

She barely hears the others moving around her, settling on benches and perching on the tabletops. The memories still reel through her mind, flickering through the forefront like fragments of nightmare - not quite forgotten but not entirely clear either.

“Cassandra.” Vax’s voice is quiet, concerned. “What is going on?”

She likes Vax. He’s taken almost the same care of her as he does Vex and helped her become a better Rogue and it was he who cracked the lock and got her out of that cell in the Umbra Hills. It was he and Vex who pushed for her to become a part of the group and them and Pike who’d seen her well and to this day only Vax and Vex know just how young she is, of all the group. She likes Vax and she trusts him. 

But she doesn’t know if she can even begin to tell them all of what happened at Whitestone. Can say in any greater detail than what she’s said already.

“In one week,” she says without looking up, “The people who killed my family are visiting the Sovereign. I don’t expect any of you to join me in this.”

They might, she knows. Vox Machina has never done anything by halves. But what she plans is an attack and two murders; to kill two guests of the Sovereign himself. Even if Assum seems willing to consider her fears, to at least be suspicious, she doesn’t much want to risk the others being dragged down with her.

“You don’t have to get involved,” Cass says quickly. She glances up, glances over them all and they’re all looking at her with horrible expressions, drawn faces, not a single smile; all sadness and anger and other things she’s not entirely sure how to parse. “I- it’s my family, it’s my business. None of you have to get involved.”

“Cass-” Vex’s voice is soft, long drawn out but it’s her brother who speaks most fully.

“Cass,” Vax says. “You’re family.” He glances to Vex, who nods without hesitation. “If you need our help, then we’re involved.”

Cassandra’s eyes are hot with unshed tears and she swallows around a lump in her throat with no idea how to respond.

“What-” Keyleth’s voice is hesitant but she pushes on. “What happened to everyone else?” she asks. “Are all of them-?”

“So far as I know,” Cass says. “The only ones I didn’t see die were Julius and Percy but-” She pauses, swallows. Blinks several times. “Julius was in bad shape. Percy was working with Ripley. I- I don’t think Julius survived. And the entire reason I attacked Ripley is because if she’d tricked Percy into working with her or for her, there’s no way she’d have let him out of her sight. And in Stilben, those two weeks, he wasn’t there.”

“Will you be able to contain yourself?” Vex’s voice is gentle. “Seeing them again, after what they did? If we can’t attack immediately, if we have to play politely-” 

“I can handle it,” Cass whispers. “I want them  _ dead. _ I’ve waited five years for it. I can wait a little longer so long as it is  _ done.” _

“But with Ripley-”

She looks hard at Vax. He’s not doubting, she thinks, just concerned.

“Ripley betrayed us all,” she says firmly. “And she lied to my brother and tricked him and likely killed him. If I see her I’m stabbing until she’s as much mincemeat as that duergar Kima wrecked.” She shakes her head, tries to clear her thoughts of anger. “But she wouldn’t join the Briarwoods for a trip. She’s  _ staff, _ not an essential steward or noble. She wouldn’t be invited with them.”

The others, as she glances at them, seem doubtful. She can’t entirely blame them. She’s not entirely sure she trusts herself.

“Will they recognise you?” Scanlan’s voice is quiet. “If they met you then-”

She shakes her head. “I doubt it,” she says, one hand finding the white streaks to her hair. “I avoided the feast after introductions were done. I slipped away because there were secret passages I wanted to explore. Besides, I-” She glances over to the twins. “Vex and Vax know already,” she says. “I was just turned thirteen when they attacked.”

For a moment there’s utter quiet before Keyleth goes, “Holy  _ shit, _ Cass! I thought you were my age!”

* * *

The next week is strange. Everyone is some stripe of tense, running errands here and there and everywhere, only rarely first checking with others before heading off. After spending three days doing nothing but testing her aim against the dummies in the yard and the dummy sacks that Grog throws for her, Vax gently pulls her away from it, advising she walk to town with Scanlan for whatever errands their bard has at Gilmore’s.

Honestly, Cass doesn’t entirely want to go, scuffing and dragging her feet along the road as Scanlan hums as thoughtlessly and unselfconsciously as he always does. She doesn’t expect him to pause doing so to speak, doesn’t expect his hand gently patting the small of her back in some semblance of comfort - just as Pike does.

“You know,” he says. “I shouldn’t have made half the jokes around you as I did. You’re what, eighteen now? Seventeen when we found you?”

“I turned eighteen last week,” Cass says softly. “And this Winter’s Crest will be five years to the day of the Briarwoods’ attack.”

“Shit, Cassandra.” For a while, he’s silent. “Shit. You’re a  _ kid.  _ You’re, what, two years older than the Kynan kid Vax tried to scare off? What’re you doing with us, fighting demons and beholders?”

“Well,” Cass says, glancing up to the fields on the far horizon as they pick their way around cowpats on the road. “I hardly have a home to return to. And if I’m going to kill the people who caused that, this is as good a way to train as any.”

* * *

The feast is fine. They don’t need the Hat of Disguise; it takes Vax six minutes with Vex’s cosmetics to alter Cass’ face enough to make her seem older, another six to alter the look of her features enough that though she’s recognisable as herself the features of her family stand out less. It’s strange to look in a mirror and see no trace of her parents, her siblings. 

The feast, itself, is fine.

It’s what comes afterwards that isn’t.

* * *

Vax is sprawled on the ground in a pool of glass, the Briarwoods flanking him on either side. In the moonlight, Sylas Briarwood’s fangs shine, unmistakeable. Vex screams, loud and ringing, and the arrow she looses sparks with lightning, the energy of it skittering over Sylas’ cloak, across his face in a way that makes him spasm. Cass doesn’t hesitate, she hurls two daggers as Vex looses her second arrow; this one at Lady Briarwood.

From the broken window Tiberius leans and Scanlan and a pale figure she doesn’t recognise, an eagle wheeling out of the window that can only be Keyleth and a halfling form tumbling tidily out of the window that has to be Assum.

Not all of them are able to help. The pale form’s ringing spell is rebuffed by Sylas, Delilah ignores Scanlan’s attempt at a charm, when Tiberius counters her next spell she scowls and the sickly green energy that strikes him renders his face slack, his stance animal. Assum, when he lifts his crossbow, meets Sylas Briarwood’s gaze and turns it towards them.

And then Keyleth, spilling out of eagle form, a spark of healing magic on her fingertips for Vax before she lifts her staff, cracking it on the cobbles and calling down a storm.

The sleet is cold, all their fine clothes soaked through and Grog, unfazed as he ever is by weather, roars in battle-ready joy as he hurls his axe.

The courtyard is a mess. Ice is slick across the cobbles, snow and sleet and rain all cascade down around them; Cass wipes her face and sees smudges of make-up on her sleeve.

Well. Not much she can do at this stage, not much point to caring. When Lord Briarwood turns toward Vax again, fangs glinting in his mouth, his cuts already starting to heal to her mind it’s just like Julius, just like her brother fighting and failing before being dragged off to die and she screams his name across the courtyard at the top of her lungs before she hurls the blessed dagger Pike made her at his face.

It lodges, neatly, just below his collarbone, and the scream of pain he gives is viciously satisfying. “You little-!” he cries and Cassandra lifts her chin, looks down her nose at him just as Mother would have, if she had known what the Briarwoods truly were.

“Oh my,” Delilah says, something almost delighted in her tone as she recognises her. “Would you look at that? Another de Rolo survived after all.”

But that cannot mean what she thinks it does and she throws a knife again, not blessed, barely magical, just meant to make them  _ bleed _ while the others work to get Vax safe.

* * *

Delilah Briarwood’s arms wrap around her husband; with a swirl of magic they vanish but Scanlan calls a question, Vex answers and together they set off running, Keyleth’s hand twisting to cancel the spell she cast above them as they go. As they round the bend they see the carriage chasing it’s way towards the gate and Grog yells, and Vex shoots her last concussive-bespelled arrow and Keyleth casts her sleet storm anew. As they watch, the carriage careens over.

The Briarwoods clamber out. The cut left by her blessed blade is still bleeding over Sylas’ rich clothes; Lady Briarwood still bears the marks of the arrows and spells which hit her but both stand tall and proud beside each other. 

“Cassandra!” Lady Briarwood calls across the battlefield the courtyard has become. “How lovely to see you again! You really should come home to visit; I’m sure Percival would be delighted to see you after so long!”

Cassandra’s daggers clatter to the cobbles of the courtyard.

“But for now,” Lady Briarwood says, her arms wrapping around her husband like vines, sickly green and deep purple magic sparking in her hands. “We must bid you farewell.”

When Cassandra has breath enough back to scream - in rage and fear and grieving fury - both of the Briarwoods are gone.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come yell at me over on [tumblr](essayofthoughts.tumblr.com) and please leave comments!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Briarwoods prepare. Percy's not having fun.

The Briarwoods return from Emon in a flurry - no carriage, no guards, no carriageboy following in attendance. They don’t pause, don’t talk, instead secreting themselves in their chambers in a storm of slammed doors and shouted orders, then rush through the halls down to the ziggurat with unrelenting force, pushing past anyone not quick enough to get out of their way.

In their wake, Percy stands by Ripley, scared and shaken.

“Anna,” he asks, scared and confused and uncertain as he hasn’t felt in a long while. “Who- who would attack them? Who would make them  _ flee?” _

“I don’t know,” Anna says and she seems - even standing tall in the hallway, watching where the Briarwoods had disappeared off into the depths beneath the castle - somehow shaken. “I- I have concerns, Percival.”

* * *

He tries not to fear. Tries not to dread. He has, at least, the reassurance of months of peace - of progress. Of the knowledge that over these past years, Anna has kept him safe and, if she is concerned enough to say it now, she is concerned enough to plan and find a way to keep them safe.

He knows not entirely what she did to keep them safe from Anders but he knows she did  _ something. _ She was too certain she could keep them safe for her not to have had some part in it all. 

Some few times he has wondered if that should scare him, what she is so clearly, quietly capable of, but he cannot help but find it a comfort. All that knowledge, all that quick and clever thinking, and she uses it, not solely in service of herself, but to keep him safe too. All he has to do is trust in her.

Anna kept them safe from Anders. When it looked, fleetingly, like the Briarwoods might be angry with her too she faced them down, unhesitating. He has thought, some few fleeting times, that perhaps if he too knew then he would have less to fear but he does not know and dares not learn. It is Anna’s knowledge and Anna keeps them safe and so he trusts her to keep them safe. She only ever keeps from him what she must, after all, only what she must to keep them safe and she has kept them safe without fail.

And so he has to trust she will now as well. Has to trust that, whatever she is doing that she does not tell him, it will turn out in their favour. It is Anna, after all. She has always kept them safe.

The only secrets she has  _ had  _ to keep from him have been to keep them safe.

* * *

“What can we  _ do _ now?” Percy asks. “Anna? The attack in Emon, the way they’re-” He doesn’t dare say the names now and gestures instead “-acting. What can we  _ do?” _

“Percival.” Anna’s voice is quiet, exact, her gaze piercing and he falls silent. “Do you trust me?”

There is only one answer he can give to that. 

“With my life,” he says.

“Then trust that I have a plan. When the time comes, come and find me.” Her metal hand is cool on his cheek; he leans into the comfort of it without a thought. “I will keep you safe. I have promised you that.”

“And proven it,” he says, a low breath before a sigh, before he kisses the heel of her metal palm. She smiles, fingers smoothing over his cheekbone and he leans into the touch. 

“Exactly,” she says. “Now come to bed.”

He curls close around her that night and, for once, she seems to curl as closely around him. It is always times such as this, he thinks, when things are dire, that she seeks his comfort as he does hers. She is too strong to need any comfort from his presence otherwise.

* * *

There are ghosts in the crypts. When Percy goes to visit the lab below he sees them and worse, he  _ recognises _ them.

“Anna,” he says when he arrives back at her chambers. “The crypts-” He pauses, struggles for words. “Delilah’s summoned ghosts to guard the ziggurat. I-  _ Julius-” _

Anna rises, some dark look on her face as she cups his in her hands. “Were you hurt?” she asks and he shakes his head. Quickly, she presses a kiss to his temple. “Go to Yennen,” she says. “Find some way to ward the ghosts back; we still have work to do.” She releases him, steps back, her metal hand flexing at her side. “I shall talk to Delilah about this. Of all the ghosts to summon-”

He wants, in truth, to stay at her side, to stay in her rooms, to stay near the reassurance of her presence. 

But she is right. They have work to do. He must be useful. He needs to survive. Each step hangs on the one before.

Anna heads one way and he heads the other and he tries not to dwell on the terrible expression on Julius’ translucent face.

* * *

Yennen’s face is pale and drawn when he sees Percy at the door of the Lady’s Chamber but he lets him in without issue. When he hears Percy’s reason for coming he waves him through, down the nave and past the amphitheatre, over to the small side room where he does enchantments. Percy remembers the last time he was here, collecting ingots of blessed metal, but that was four and a half years ago.

It hasn’t changed much.

“Here.” Yennen’s voice is surprisingly gentle as he lifts two pendants from a rack of them. They’re not Erathisean in design but rather Pelorian suns, Erathis’ scales and axe embossed in the central golden disc of metal. At Percy’s querying glance, Yennen sighs. “You are not the only people I have had to make these for,” Yennen says. “Both my flock and those once Father Reynal’s have been in dire need of protection from undead, especially those in earshot of the Zenith’s graveyard.”

He does not make mention of the zombified giants now trudging their way through town. Does not ask after the ghosts, does not speak of what other horrors might be rising from the soil and from death. 

“I’m given to understand,” Yennen says warily. “That in addition to the undead nature of her husband, Lady Briarwood is also a Necromancer of no mean skill.”

Percy eyes him further for that but there is a warmth to the pendants in his hand, a warmth that seeps comfortingly into his skin, a warmth that reminds him of early mornings years ago, the Zenith dark until the sun rose, light spilling over the treetops and through the stained glass until the temple was filled with light and Pelorian song. He jerks a nod. 

“That is concerning,” the Keeper says softly. “I had wondered but hoped otherwise.” He lets out a long sigh, longer than before, long and  _ tired _ and for the first time Percy really sees Yennen for what he is - an old man with too many responsibilities, too many people relying on him and not enough he can do to help. Yennen shakes his head. “Well. Those should protect you both from the depredations of any undead. And, should they lose their effectiveness, alert me at once. Powerful undead are a grave danger to us all.”

Percy’s quite certain he didn’t intend the pun but for some reason, the fact of it cheers him nonetheless as he makes his way back to Anna.

* * *

Anna accompanies him down the first few times. She is, it seems, just as shaken as he is by this new security measure of Delilah’s - prior to this point, security of the work below has been left to them, tripwires of Percy’s design and small traps and Anna’s littered Alarm spells. That Delilah now feels a need to take it over herself is… well, it’s an insult to Anna’s skill for one and betrays just how concerned the Briarwoods are for two.

Percy’s not sure which he should find more concerning as Julius swims out of the stonework, the ghosts of scattered ancestors and cousins close behind.

He swallows back his fear though and lifts the amulet, prays that Yennen was correct that it would help and Anna starts moving forwards, stubborn and unafraid, even before the ghosts have begun to sway back.

As they clear the crypts, as they clear the ghosts, he glances to Anna. Her expression is fierce, angry - but not at him. He thinks - he hopes - that if Delilah’s actions have led to this much a response, Anna may seek to see them free of the Briarwoods sooner rather than later. 

_ “What _ she was thinking-” Anna says half under her breath as they make their way down and Percy cannot help his small smile, cannot help how he wants so much to lean toward her. It heartens him, her anger, and that he knows where it’s directed and why. That she’s protective is as sure a sign of her care for him as any of her affection has ever been.

He glances at her, striding with purpose, spine straight, shoulders back, head up and expression fierce, and he cannot help but love her.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra comes home.

Tiberius leaves them. Cassandra wonders if, had she not been so consumed with her own goals - to return to Whitestone, to get some semblance of justice - she might have noticed sooner how much at a loose end he was feeling. 

It is too late now though and she has the others. They at least have not wavered yet - not at all. They have chosen, at least for now, to join her - to keep her company and help her in this quest. She can only hope it will be enough as they make their way on.

It has been years since she’s been home - five years of survival and desperation and new friends who’ve saved her from death as many times as she’s helped save them - but she doesn’t remember home ever looking so  _ grim. _

The trees near the city look sickly. The fields look drab; the farmers are hauling in the final harvests but the wheat looks more grey than gold, the root vegetables stacked by the fields’ edges are limp and discoloured. Even the city itself looks worn and there are, walking at a slow, thudding pace through the city, three undead giants. Cass suspects they came from the assaulted structure back in the mountains. None of that is the worst part, though.

The worst part is the Sun Tree, unnaturally barren and bare, desecrated and made a gallows. Seven bodies dangle. One is a bear. One is a child.

Seven bodies, made up to look like her  _ friends. _ Like the closest thing she now has to family. She doesn’t dare imagine who else may have been left to dangle from the tree and bile fills her mouth.

“Ducky,” Vax says, voice soft. “Come on, we should get clear.”

She nods and buries a hand in Trinket’s fur and as the bear follows the twins through worryingly empty streets, Cass follows, eyes cast down.

She’s not certain this isn’t a terrible idea.

* * *

They take shelter in an inn right by the Sun Tree in the end. Cass doesn’t entirely want to - the Sun Tree is…  _ essential _ in a way she cannot fully explain to the others and to see it like this is something close to blasphemous. 

“I might be able to bring it back,” Keyleth says. “There’s a few druid spells for the rejuvenation of nature and plants in an area, if I channel it right at the base of the tree, we might be able to bring it back.”

It would bring hope, there’s no doubting that, but it would also be the biggest, most overt _ we’re here _ sign possible. 

“Cass,” Keyleth says, eyes gentle. “I won’t if you don’t want me to. But- it might help. If the tree was planted by a god - a god of  _ sunlight _ surely the tree can help us, right? Even if only symbolically.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But if they realise-”

“It’ll take time for it to get back to normal,” Keyleth says. “Like. I can’t make a tree go from autumn-winter hibernation to full summer foliage  _ and _ it’s heading for winter to make it worse. I can just- nudge it a bit.”

It’s the most they’re likely to get and while Keyleth works on the tree and Vex keeps watch, the rest of them scout.

She’s not surprised to see the noble houses worn and different to how they ever were. Half their occupants had been killed in the initial attack; it would make sense for the Briarwoods to replace the nobles they murdered with nobles they made.

New nobles who probably helped with the murder that got them their positions, she thinks. It turns her stomach.

“It’s all right, Ducky.” Vax’s hand is gentle on her shoulder. “We’ll get them. We’ll get all of them.”

They pick the nearest manor house to scout out tomorrow. When, as they’re walking away, Cassandra hears the name  _ Stonefell, _ the man who’d helped Ripley more often that most, satisfaction turns in her gut. If there’s any open target worth starting with, she thinks, it’s him.

* * *

They rest that night only fitfully but they rest nonetheless. Vex kindly lets Cass curl the other side of Trinket to her and Vax curls atop the bear’s great bulk. The combination of their close company, Grog’s distant but distinctive snores and Scanlan’s occasional sleep-song are all familiar enough that each time she half-awakens she’s soon enough soothed back to rest. She knows, with her friends as company, she’s as close to safe as she can be.

She still doesn’t feel properly rested when they rise the next day, ready to attack Stonefell. 

She is ready for that, though. By all the gods of Whitestone, by all of Pelor’s angels is she ready for that.

* * *

It’s easy enough to sneak into Stonefell’s manor - certainly easier than sneaking into the Palace of Emon ever was and less concerning than investigating Gregory Fince’s abandoned home or Krieg’s bloody mansion. Through the back fence, through the coal cellar and into the wine cellar and from there it’s a simple enough matter to make their way up to the ground floor. 

Distantly, Cass remembers this house. One of her old schoolmates had lived here. Once she’d been invited over and they’d all snuck around avoiding the adults as long as they could. She suspects that, now, security will be rather tighter.

Vax scouts ahead because, reckless as he may sometimes be, the risks he takes tend to pay off. In the end, he is more skilled than she is despite all her caution - or perhaps because of it.

He finds Stonefell’s office. They could wait for the meeting to be over, for whatever subordinates are there to be dismissed but then - that just means more guards in the building that risk discovering them.

And so in they charge, reckless as it might be, and the first steps towards some semblance of vengeful justice for Cassandra’s family are made. Stonefell’s blood is as red as any other man’s. 

* * *

With all of them as ready as they are, it’s almost easy to destroy them all - four guards, one man, and Stonefell himself. The guards dealt with, the man disabled, Stonefell dead. 

The man’s name, they learn, is Vouk, but he’s not terribly willing to tell them much else.

“Gods,” Vax says, stepping back and casting his eyes to the ceiling. “Gods, this is like pulling teeth.”

Even where he’s sat, bound and blindfolded on the floor, Vouk smirks - smug, self-satisfied, self-confident - and it sends old memories reeling through Cassandra’s skull. (Family, cages, leaping fire. Stonefell’s ringing voice,  _ “Like pulling teeth!” _ and Ripley’s chilling reply.) She doesn’t mean to voice the words but they slip out anyway.

“No,” she says softly. “No, it isn’t. Pulling teeth involves more pliers and screaming.”

She tries to crush the vicious satisfaction she feels as Vouk blanches.

* * *

They leave Stonefell’s house on fire. Vouk is killed through simple necessity - even if they’d taken his tongue he could likely write, even if they’d broken his hands there are spells to read minds. Better there are no witnesses left to warn the Briarwoods, to tell them any of what little they did discuss in the house, better any bodies are charred to a crisp. 

Stonefell is dead. They have the names, too, of the other main enforcers and where they live. Vedmeyer and Tylieri are both on her list now - better to get enforcers out of the way to free the people - and then, with them gone-

The Zenith, from what she remembers, burned. She doesn’t know if it was one fire soon put out or if the whole place has been razed. She doesn’t know if Father Reynal lives.

She knows who will though and - work at Stonefell’s done - she leads her friends down familiar streets towards the Lady’s Chamber.

It hasn’t changed a jot.

A service has just finished up; from what little Cass remembers of the few Erathisean services the family ever attended this would not be the usual time. She suspects the fire and the occasional shouts in the street have hurried things along here. Yennen stands, face drawn, by the font in the centre of the amphitheatre, his goddess’ axe and scales behind him, huge and stalwart and utterly unchanged. A few of his congregation linger, talking to one another, and he stays there, watching, eyes curious as she weaves her way around the scattered groups.

“I don’t believe I recognise you,” he says, which is true enough with the Seeming covering her skin. “Any of you. Greetings and welcome. What can I do for you?”

She wishes she knew what to say. Wishes that perhaps she and Yennen had agreed some way to communicate even in disguise but this is what is.

“You’d be correct,” she says instead. “We’re recently arrived.”

Yennen’s gaze narrows. “We have had very few visitors these past few years,” he says cautiously. “Even for trade, let alone other purposes.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Cass says dryly. “So lovely a place as Whitestone.”

“It once was,” Yennen says. “But the past few years have been hard on us. However - this is small talk. What can I do for you? I am but a priest of Erathis, no great mover and shaker in these parts.”

_ Liar, _ Cass thinks. She may never have known Yennen well but he was devout in his service to Erathis - and Erathis was law and civilisation, both of which the Briarwoods paid little heed. Unless things are far more dire than they ever were, she knows Yennen wouldn’t simply stand by in all that, not if there was anything he could do to help. At the least, he will have a network, at the most, he might even have tried to unseat the Briarwoods himself.

“We are strangers,” Cass says, “And so this is an imposition to ask. But- if we  _ might _ impose, could we prevail on a priest of the goddess of civilisation to give us a civil greeting and civil aid in private? We  _ are _ new here and I believe we have much we need to learn.”

She does not miss Yennen’s hand going to his amulet, his thumb rubbing the curve of one blade of the double-headed axe of his holy symbol. She does not miss the glances he casts to the acolytes scattered amongst the crowd. 

“Of course,” he says, after a moment. “This way, if you would.”

He leads them to a small room behind the altar, a workroom of some description. There, some measure of his tranquil demeanour fades. 

“Strangers are rare here,” he says, “And I truly do recognise most faces here. So either you are true strangers or you are liars in disguise and I am not sure which is more concerning.”

It’s a fair reason to be cautious and the others linger by the door as she steps closer, scrubbing one hand over her face. 

“Yennen,” she says, then glances back. “Scanlan,” she says. “Please?”

As the illusion falls, Yennen’s face goes from wary confusion to surprise. 

“Cassandra,” he says. “You came back. Lady’s Grace, we might just have a chance.”

* * *

It is not, in the end, a brief meeting. There is too much to discuss for that, too much to cover. Instead, they skip over introductions in the interest of being as brisk as possible, Cass sharing the short version of what they’ve done so far before Yennen gives a quick overview of the state of things in Whitestone.

Not quite as dire as they’d feared but bad enough already. 

“I imagine,” he adds, “The fire you set on Stonefell’s manor is likely to cause an increase in security. Vedmeyer and Tylieri will jockey to fill his position which will mean a rough time for anyone they think is causing trouble.” He sees the look crossing her face, the guilt, the concern. “We’ll face it down,” he says. “We’ve faced down plenty these past years; we can face down this too if it soon all will end.”

“Still-” Vax says. “If we could have made it easier-”

“There’s a saying one of my acolytes is fond of,” Yennen says with a dry smile. “‘You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs’. Any insurrection would have caused this, yours or any others’; it would be unavoidable. Believe me, my congregation knows it. You are not to blame for beginning a necessary process.”

That is not the only reason to fear though and even if Yennen is prepared and able to help and comfort his flock, Cass cannot help but wonder at one person who may - or maybe not - be beyond his reach.

“Yennen,” Cass says, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. “In Emon, Lady Briarwood said-” She swallows, uncertain. “Percy…” 

She trails off, unable to ask. Half of it is hope, the idea that she might not be the last left after all. Half of it is fear and dread and self-loathing. If, in the end, her brother was alive - what had been done to him? What had happened, these past five years? Did he know she lived; what would he think of her that she did, that she had left without him? What did it  _ say _ of her, that she had fled, escaped to freedom without him leaving him trapped in a place that might as well be one of the hells?

What might happen to him now, if he lives? Might they blame him or hurt him for this; might he blame her? There are enough people who will be hurt in all this - who have been hurt already - and Cass does not want to be cause of further hurt to the last family she might have left.

“He’s alive,” Yennen confirms. “He works most usually with Doctor Ripley as some kind of an assistant, and very occasionally works on his own.” He pauses a moment before speaking again, more softly. “I saw him the other day, in fact.”

“Was he-”

“He’s in good health,” Yennen says. “As much as anyone can be in his circumstances. He came to get amulets against undead for himself and Ripley. Apparently there are now ghosts in the castle, since the Briarwoods returned.”

It’s not hard to consider the reason.  _ Because we attacked them. _

“Cassandra,” Yennen says. “I have to ask. Your presence here, the recent attacks - am I to understand you have a plan in place, you and your friends? A list of targets and a goal?”

Cass glances to the others.

“The bones of a plan,” she says. “Things don’t always- they don’t always go to plan, so mostly we have vague ideas. But we hope to retake Whitestone. To end the Briarwoods and Ripley and the rest who helped them. Stonefell we’ve handled. Vedmeyer and Tylieri are next.”

“Who else?”

“Can we trust you not to tell?” It’s Vax who asks, quick and cutting, pushing forwards so he’s more clearly at Cass’ side. “Cass’ family was betrayed, how can we know-”

“Young man, I serve  _ Erathis.” _ Yennen’s voice is offended but absolute and the old man draws himself up tall. “The Lady of Law, the Sovereign of Civilisation. And in Her name I serve Life and the people of this city. I may not be a priest of Pelor as Reynal was, gods rest his soul, and I may not have so close a tie to the de Rolos as he did but I serve Law and Life and the people of this place. Not those who killed and conquered and coerced, not those who would raise as undead the bodies of those we loved and lost!”

“He helped me escape.” Cass keeps her voice quiet, rests one hand on Vax’s arm and gently pushes him back. “Five years ago. I’m not sure I’d have made it as far as I did without him.”

“Ducky, we found you in a  _ cell-” _

“That was because of Ripley,” Cass says. “And she didn’t know before then that I’d survived. She was surprised; she didn’t know.” Vax is still wary and Cass can’t fully blame him. She turns back to Yennen nonetheless. “Does Percy know?” she asks. “About me?”

Yennen shakes his head. “Not to my knowledge,” he says. “I doubt Ripley wanted to risk his becoming distracted.”

_ Distracted from what? _ She wants to ask. But not now. She has other priorities now.

“Then Ripley,” she says. “For what she’s done to my family, living and dead. The Briarwoods. And Anders for getting them in.”

Yennen’s face creases into a smile. “One of those,” he says, “You won’t have to worry about. Byron Anders has been imprisoned awaiting eventual judgement; apparently he attempted to frame Ripley for something severe enough the Briarwoods are contemplating killing him. To my knowledge he’s in the cells still; you’ll be able to deal with him as you will once this is all over.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos builds. Percy fears.

Chaos is building in the city. Percy does not have to see it to know it. The servants are antsy, nervous, casting glances around - even to him, for all he’s endeavoured to avoid notice. It worries him, this unrest, moreso with the ghosts, moreso still as the Briarwoods give commands to crack down on the citizenry, to make an example.

He’d heard before of the bodies in the Sun Tree. He doesn’t dare to look now.

When he goes to Anna she’s calm, unworried. Any concerns she may have she keeps quiet and he seeks her certainty for comfort more than ever.

“It’ll be all right,” she says, her hand warm on his shoulder, her lips fleetingly firm against his forehead, and he leans into her touch as her arm wraps around his shoulders. Her breath tickles his ear. “I have a plan,” she whispers and he shivers once as all his fears fall silent. “I’ll keep us safe. Just listen.”

She has never steered him wrong.

* * *

She doesn’t tell him her plan. He has no doubt she has one and he has no doubt it will work but- he had hoped, perhaps naively, that they were past the point of secrets now, that he had proved himself unfaltering in his faith in her, proved he would never betray her.

If this plan is in place to get them both out he only wishes he was allowed to know it too. That she trusted him enough for that.

“I do trust you,” she says, when he whispers his worries to her. “You know that. But if the Briarwoods realise you know it too, if we get caught then you too will be hurt for it.” Her metal hand pats his cheek once, twice. “I don’t trust  _ them,” _ she says. “And I am working to keep us safe. It is better that, for now, information is controlled.”

It’s true and Percy knows it but it leaves him unsettled nonetheless. Leaves him troubled. If things truly are this bad, he thinks, then surely it would be better if he knew enough to  _ help. _

* * *

The servants stay antsy, nervous, glancing around. He has never much spoken to them - even now there are so few - but even he notices their nervousness, the scattered glances they cast, the quiet muttering. He notices too, how quiet they go around him.

Whoever these people are attacking the Briarwoods’ allies, even if they are not friends to him, he thinks, half-hoping, they are not his  _ enemies _ either. There are few with more reason to wish the Briarwoods dead than him and even if he has spent the past five years silent, too scared to do a thing against them, he does not think his obedience could ever be thought anything but that - fear and a desire to survive.

The servants go silent around him though, as though they fear him hearing whatever it is they say, as though they fear he may tell others, others that they don’t want knowing.

The only one he can think he might tell is Anna and then only that she could use it to save their lives.

* * *

It was bad enough that Stonefell was attacked and killed with no witnesses. Worse when Vedmeyer and Tylieri fall. The Briarwoods grow more paranoid, more wary, more  _ watchful _ and it is only Anna’s insistence that she can and will keep them both safe that brings him comfort. No matter how much he wants to, he does not think he’d dare to go so often to her rooms if she was not so certain. He is there most every night the first week of the Briarwoods’ return and  _ every _ night once the attacks begin.

They hurry through work each day. They’re lucky - the Briarwoods’ absences and Anders’ removal have let them not only regain lost time but pushed them ahead of the deadline once more and with this new pressure Anna pushes beyond even that. They’ve been nearing completion with the ziggurat for long enough that when Anna turns to the Briarwoods one painfully early morning and tells them, “Three days,” Percy knows she’s leaving a day’s margin of error.

They’re ahead of schedule by a week and a half and it’s more than even Percy had thought they might gain back.

* * *

That evening, safe in Anna’s rooms, he pauses before asking if he can stay or should leave. He thinks - hopes - he knows the answer already: Anna has not refused his presence even once since the Briarwoods’ return and he thinks she seeks his closeness just as much as he seeks hers. Instead he sits in his chair, sketchbook on his lap, pencil loose in his hand. She doesn’t look up from her book, absorbed in as she is in her reading, and it is easy to breathe out his anxiety with how unconcerned she looks. Even the divot between her eyebrows is a small one, more frustration at her book than with the day, and it soothes him.

He only wishes he could  _ help, _ in some true and tangible way other than simple obedience. In this, he feels, with the current circumstances, obedience alone is not enough.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks and Anna looks up from her book. He gestures. “I’m at a loose end with our work so close to done. And you know I hate being useless.”

The smile that spreads then across Anna’s face is something close to fond, something warm in a way her smiles only occasionally are and some few more of his anxieties ease at that alone.

“Be ready,” she says. “You know we cannot prepare, Percy, not too far. If we do we will be noticed and if we are noticed we will be stopped. You must trust me.”

“I do,” he says simply, honestly. “You know I do.” He cannot think she’s ignorant of that fact. Cannot fathom that  _ now _ of all times she might doubt him after all they’ve been through - has he not proven himself to her enough? “I just-” He gestures, helplessly, setting sketchbook and pencil aside. “I don’t have enough to do. And, Anna, if I don’t have enough to do, if I’m not  _ useful-” _ He doesn’t need to glance at the door for his fear to be obvious and Anna sets her book aside, rising from her chair with ease to cross to him.

“Shh,” she says and he rises and steps close even as her arm wraps around him, as her lips press to his cheek. “Shh, it’s all right.” Her hand is gentle on his shoulder, gentle at the back of his neck even as she pulls him closer and he tilts his face to hers. Her metal thumb smooths over his cheek. “Perhaps one thing,” she says after a moment. “All our records of the whitestone refinement. It would be helpful to have them fully catalogued and organised - not just by date but any significant breakthroughs. Perhaps a volume to index events. It would help with organisation if nothing else and you do like things to be in their right place.”

It’s a little teasing that last, a little mocking, but she’s not wrong. It’s been more helpful than not, these past five years, his precision and exactitude both in lab work and in study.

“And,” she says, sounding almost pleased. “Then you shan’t have to deal with those ghosts.” Her hand pats his cheek, once, twice. “I know how they unsettle you.”

She’s not wrong. Seeing Julius’ drawn face each time they descend is a trial in itself and he doesn’t know what to make of it. If nothing else, he’d have hoped his brother might be happy to see him still alive; the strange grief on his face, the flashes of occasional fury, he doesn’t know what to make of.

He tilts his head to her hand, presses a kiss to her metal palm. “Thank you,” he says, heartfelt. He glances to the desk, considers starting now but Anna’s fingers are firm against his cheek.

“For now,” she says. “Let’s us to bed.”

* * *

He accompanies Anna down to the crypts the next day all the same. He may not be about to confront his fears of the Briarwoods anytime soon but while ghosts are well worth being wary of he doesn’t _want_ to fear his family. Julius’ ghost might just be all he has left. 

The ghosts vanish as they raise their amulets but Julius reappears rapidly once Anna is most of the way down the tunnel. His face is as drawn and sad as ever.

He wishes he knew what to say. It seems, Percy thinks, that Julius doesn’t either. 

“What do you  _ want?” _ he asks. 

Julius glances behind himself to the passage Anna vanished down and then back, pointedly, to Percy. 

“She saved my life,” Percy points out. “And you all used to tease me about how much I respected her. Why are you surprised I’m working with her still?”

Percy’s brother doesn’t speak. He does make a truly disgusted face and a very rude gesture, however.

“She  _ saved my life,” _ Percy hisses. “She put her own on the line to do it, too. I’d be  _ dead _ but for her and the last  _ bloody _ thing Father told me to do was survive. How the hell else do you think I’ve managed up to this point?” He probably shouldn’t say the next thing but, “At least I’m  _ alive,” _ he says. He doesn’t dare raise his voice but his harsh whisper carries through the quiet of the shattered crypts nonetheless. “At least I took the help offered me instead of standing on pride like that could protect  _ any _ of us!”

Julius’ expression changes but not to the wounded thing Percy half-expects and not to anger either. If anything, now, he just looks  _ sad, _ sad as Percy doesn’t think he’d ever been in life. It’s a terrible thing to see on his brother’s translucent face but Percy doesn’t know how to ease it.

“Sorry,” he says. “But- I don’t know why you’re upset. I don’t know why you’re here. And I don’t know why you’re acting like this. I’d thought- I’d thought you’d be  _ happy _ I was alive, if nothing else.”

_ I am, _ Julius mouths - but no sound comes out.  _ I am. _ He glances over his shoulder again, back down at the path Anna took before shaking his head.  _ Not like that, _ he mouths.  _ Not with her. _

“She’s the only reason I  _ am _ alive,” Percy says. “I’d have been in the cells but for her. I’d have been useless and killed but for her.” He doesn’t say the words itching at his throat.  _ I owe her my life. I love her. _

Julius seems almost to sigh, his drawn expression softening to simple sadness, to something trying and failing to comfort. He crosses his arms, fingers tapping at his elbows, head tilted as he watches. He doesn’t say a word. Percy doesn’t know if he even  _ can. _ Julius shakes his head once more.

_ Just think, _ he mouths.  _ Think things through. _ It doesn’t matter that the next sentence is more complicated because Percy had seen his family say it so many times in life that even now it’s still familiar.  _ You always were too smart for your own good. _

He’d not be alive now if he wasn’t so smart though. Anna wouldn’t have been able to save his life, he’d not have been able to prove his use. If he wasn’t so smart he’d be  _ dead.  _

“I have to get back to work,” he says softly. 

* * *

Work, at least, is simple. Cataloguing all they’ve done these five years is time-consuming, certainly, but he’s the one who copied the notes out in neat each day. He still has most of it memorised. 

He pulls down the notebooks, the stacks and sheafs of paper, and gets to organising. This at least brings him peace, settles the troubling whirl of thoughts in his head, the small thoughts he does not want to contemplate. This, at least, keeps him useful.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep easily that night, even curled around Anna. Her presence is a comfort - it always is - but the unrest of the city is getting to him, the Briarwoods’ short tempers worsening his worries, the servant’s whispers, Anna’s quiet, Julius’  _ expression  _ down in the crypts at something he still cannot grasp. The worries circle in his mind.

He doesn’t go down the next day. He doesn’t even accompany Anna. There is nothing down there now that he needs - just his device, finished when the Briarwoods last left and secured in the wall safe, and that he can fetch when time comes to leave. Anna spends such time down there now he has little doubt that’s where he’ll find her. 

Instead he stays secure and safe in Anna’s chambers, working to catalogue and index the past five years worth of research and study.

It soothes his mind just enough from the anxieties he doesn’t dare entirely face.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come.

It’s not the easiest trek into the castle. The woods are looming and dark, more ominous than they ever were in Cassandra’s childhood, and with the passage of years the tunnel into the castle is grown over and hidden. They find it though and take shelter there. Yennen already knows the plan: to wait for dawn before causing havoc in town to distract the Briarwoods into thinking there’s an uprising in the making while the real threat is already inside the walls.

Cass probably shouldn’t feel so pleased to turn infiltration tactics back on the ones who used it to destroy her family. 

The path is dark and narrow; the dungeons they emerge into dark and dusty. The worn wooden table between the cells is stained with dark, years-old blood and they move past it as close to silent as they can. Professor Anders, lynchpin to her family’s fall, does not stir from sleep as they pass, not even when Pike’s glowing form slightly illuminates the cells.

They’re inside the castle. Outside, the sun is rising. 

“Ready?” Vax asks, hand gentle on her shoulder.

She’s daunted, if anything, uncertain. Even with the new nobles destroyed their men - the Briarwoods’ men - are still around. The people of Whitestone may be willing to rise up in the name of their home and the de Rolos and against the crimes the Briarwoods committed but the people of Whitestone are also  _ people. _ Like anyone, they can die. She does not know how many people this plan may condemn to death. 

But Yennen had a point. Under the Briarwoods’ rule, people will always come to harm. And, for all her fear, the castle is familiar. Is  _ home. _ She’s known it all her life.

“Ready,” she says. The hallways beyond the cells are empty, no sign even of servants or guards. 

“Where now?” Vax asks, glancing down at her. “It’s your home. Where now?”

She wants to find her brother. To check that he’s all right. She wants too, to kill Ripley, to ensure that the woman who wrapped Percival around her little finger and tortured their whole family to death cannot do anything like it ever again.

Percy’s rooms or Ripley’s?

“This way,” she says after a moment. 

* * *

Percy looks up from Ripley’s desk. There’s a shock of white hair that used to be brown but Cassandra recognises her brother. Despite the difference of years, he hasn’t changed that much in the end - Father’s chin, Mother’s eyes, the same nose as the great uncle he was named for. As she steps into the room, Vox Machina at her back, he clearly recognises her.   
  
“Cassandra,” he whispers, eyes gone wide and he rises, seemingly without thinking, stepping around the desk towards her. “You- you’re  _ alive.” _ His hands are reaching, fingers flexing almost anxiously.   
  
“Yes,” Cass says. “And we’re here to end the Briarwoods and Ripley.”   
  
His face blanches - terror, some twisted kind of hope, something that might be anger - and Cassandra reaches to take her brother’s hands in hers. To grip his wrists. When she does, he flinches, hands jerking back from her grip.   
  
“No,” he says. “Don’t touch me.”   
  
“Percy-”

She reaches for him again but he recoils when her hand brushes his. 

“Don’t,” he says, stepping back. His eyes, behind his glasses, scan warily over the group and then back to her. “Don’t. I thought- you were  _ dead,” _ he says softly. “I saw all the rest but never you. But the years went by and I thought-”   
  
“I thought you were dead too,” Cass says. “You weren’t with her at Stilben. I thought she killed you, like-” She cuts herself off. “I didn’t know you still lived until Yennen told me.” She nods slowly. Swallows. “All the others?” she asks. “Mother? Father? Julius?”   
  
Percy shakes his head. “Gone,” he says. “All of them. They took the bodies below.”   
  
“To the crypts?”   
  
Percy shakes his head again. “Below,” is all he says.   
  
Cass glances back to the group. Vax is watching her as though to ask if she’s going to hold her nerve. Vex watches Percy, his every tremor and twitch, as though he’s about to turn on them. Maybe he is.   
  
“We’re going to end this,” Cass says. “Are you going to join us?”   
  
There’s a stretch of silence as Percy thinks. “I-” he starts. “I need- I have to tell Anna.”

For a long moment Cassandra can’t quite bring herself to say anything. They’d been told, after all, that Percy followed in Ripley’s wake, some kind of assistant, quiet, nervous, almost in a daze. Terrified, Cass had assumed, and the way he’s shaking now almost confirms it. She can’t imagine Ripley to have been kind to him; the only reason she might have kept him alive was if she thought him useful.

But then, it would be just like Percy not to see the truth of it.  _ Anna, _ he’d said. Ripley had always insisted on her honorific. Percy had said her name like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Percy,” Cassandra says slowly. “She helped to kill our parents. Our siblings. She needs to die.”

Her brother’s eyes dart, wide and fearful. When his gaze lands on hers it reminds her of a caged wolf she once saw - wild and desperate, refusing to quite believe this is the state of things. “No,” he says. “I helped her. We tried to  _ save _ them. You can’t. If you-”

Cass steps forwards. Percy steps back. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cass says. “You’re my brother. But she betrayed us-”

_ “And I helped her!” _ Percy’s voice is almost shrill and it’s a terribly good thing that the castle seems to be empty of anyone, even servants. “It was the only way I could have saved them,” he says. “Helping her. It was the only way for any of us to stay alive.”

“Did you want to?” Vax’s voice cuts in, clean and quick and sharp as one of his knives. “Help her?”

“We wanted to  _ save _ them,” Percy says. “We wanted them to  _ live.” _

“Percy,” Cass keeps her voice calm. “She  _ killed _ them.”

There’s something wavering and fearful to Percy’s face, clearly unwilling to reconcile these two facts.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Percy,” Cass says. “Not about this.” Percy doesn’t even blink, still staring and horrified and Cass almost reaches for him again. His hands, she sees, are trembling.

“I helped her,” he says again. “I helped her.” 

Vax speaks again. “Did you want to?” he says once again. “Help her?”

“I don’t- I wanted to live. I wanted all of us to live. She said if I helped, if I helped her get the information they needed, they could all live. But no one knew what they wanted to know. No one would say.”

“Percy-”

“That doesn’t sound like someone who wanted to help,” Vex says.

“Sounds like a rock and a hard place,” says Keyleth. 

Percy’s eyes dart - Cass, Vex, Keyleth. Back to Cass. 

“You don’t have to help her anymore,” Cass says, reaching out. Percy flinches back again and his hand trembles in her grip. “You don’t have to. You’re going to be safe, Percy. We can get justice for our family. We can  _ kill them, _ the ones who did this, all of them. Do you want to help us? Or do you want to stay here?”

“I don’t-” He stops, swallows. “She helped me,” he says, softly. “She saved my life.”

“Because you could be useful to her,” she says. “Percy. When in all our lives was Ripley ever  _ kind?” _

Percy lets out a breath, shaky and uncertain. His hands still tremble in her grip but he’s stopped trying to make her let go, stopped flinching from her touch. He glances over them all, one by one. “I need to- I should tell Anna,” he says, but it sounds more like a question than the clear declaration of before. He blinks at last, gaze dropping to the ground. Cass has no doubt he’s thinking. “I don’t know what to do.”

Cassandra decides to take a risk. From her belt she draws one of her knives and holds it out, hilt first, to her brother. “Come with us,” she says. “Avenge our family.”

* * *

They stalk through the halls of Whitestone. Vex follows her brother a little ahead instead of Cassandra acting as Vax’s shadow and Cass stays back with Percy. 

He’s shaking still. Cassandra doesn’t think she’s ever seen her brother this nervy in her life. 

“They’ll all be below,” Percy had said, when they’d asked. “That’s. That’s where it is.”

He won’t tell them what  _ it _ is though, nor what he means by below. It’s not the crypts, though. Percy wouldn’t be shaking like this if their family had been interred in the crypts, where they’ve been buried since the founding. She doesn’t dare imagine what it could be, so much worse Percy won’t even name it.

The door to the crypts is open. So is every tomb within. Percy pushes ahead, there, clutching an amulet close to his neck. Cassandra finds it odd. Percy had never been one for belief - and neither had Ripley from what she recalls - but she recognises the spines of Pelor’s sun glimpsed between her brother’s fingers. 

“Back,” he says, to seemingly empty air. “Let us through.”

And then a ghost slips forward and makes Cassandra’s breath catch in her throat.

* * *

“That was-” she says when the ghost has nodded and slipped away. Percy nods, ashen. Julius’ face had been drawn and sad to see Percy, something not quite disappointment, or, if it was, not at Percy. Cassandra knows well how much Julius sought to protect them. It must be a second death for him to know he couldn’t protect Percy. 

“Sometimes he’s himself. Sometimes he’s angry. But it’s him.”

When they are done here, Cassandra decides, when Pelor’s priest is back, they are going to illuminate the crypts in sunlight and set free every trapped soul compelled to linger.

* * *

The tunnels go down. Out the back wall of the crypt, down through earth, through stone, into a series of scattered caverns. 

“There is a big one,” Percy says. “That’s where the Briarwoods will be. But, first-”

He glances to Cass, Cass to Vax. Vax shrugs. This is her quest. Her brother. She has to decide. 

“All right,” she says softly. “Ripley first.”

* * *

Her brother trembles. He leads the way now - he knows this route, he says, has to come down here regularly to help  _ Anna. _ Cassandra doesn’t like how easily he says that name. He leads the way, points out small traps and tripwires clearly set up to alert Ripley to approaches.

“She doesn’t like to be disturbed,” Percy says. “Unless it’s by someone she trusts.”

_ Like you? _ Cassandra wants to ask. She knows no other reason that Percy would know them all. 

He’s shaking. He’s not taken her hand once when offered. He calls Ripley  _ Anna. _

“Percy,” she whispers as they near the sealed door. “Remember why we are here. What she’s done.”

* * *

The door opens smoothly. Silently. It’s a focused lab - a base of operations. Vox Machina stays back, Cassandra close by the door. Percy’s eyes flicker shut for a moment before he steps through. He still, Cassandra sees, has the knife in his hand. Cloak pulled tight, an enchantment set active and Cassandra stealths in behind her brother. Ripley doesn’t look up from the tangle of tubes she seems to be running last minute checks on. 

It’s a simple stone room, sparse on creature comforts. There’s a narrow bed in one corner, clearly well used, and a pile of assorted clothes - skirts and shirts, jerkins like her brother’s. Stacks of books. Desks. Vats of the same acid they’ve already passed so many times. Buckets of  _ residuum _ chips. 

“Anna,” Percy says softly and the woman at the far end of the room looks up. 

There’s a hardness to him now, to the set of his face. The knife in his hand is gripped with a terrible fierceness and all the terror that had shaken his body is tamped down and shoved back until tension replaces it. He steps forward. Ripley doesn’t appear to have noticed the change, or maybe she has and doesn’t care. She always was smart, Ripley, but intense and focussed, just as Percy could be - it was no wonder they had got along so well, no wonder that she’d been able to convince Percy to help her these past five years. 

“Percy,” she says, almost gladly. Almost  _ fond _ , which is not something Cassandra would have suspected Doctor Anna Ripley capable of. “Come along. Delilah and Sylas are almost finished; we’d do well to get clear.”

“No,” Percy says quietly, lifting the knife. The blade flickers in the sourceless luminescence of the chamber. “No, I don’t think we shall.”

Then red flashes along the silver.

Percy crumples as Ripley does. The gouts of blood cover them both. Cassandra almost steps forwards but can’t, feels almost locked in place. Ripley sinks down slowly, back against the table and then on to the ground. The knife first in at her collarbone, then the hollow of her neck, then just above her heart. 

Cassandra thinks, now, that Ripley had to have  _ something _ in her chest, for the blood to pour out so thick and so red, for the look on her face to be so filled with shock. 

She’d thought Percy was still afraid. That Percy would obey. 

Cassandra knows this Percy, though. This isn’t her brother cowed by fear. This is her brother who took the dog dying of a kick from a horse and carefully, concisely, snapped its neck. 

What is necessary, he had said, is not always nice. Sometimes kindness requires a little callousness. 

Cassandra’s fingers find her earring. She whispers words. Her friends file into the room behind her. 

Her brother stays crumpled by the collapsed shape of Ripley, trousers wet with her blood. 

* * *

“Percy,” Cassandra says softly. “Percival.” 

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t move when she takes a step closer either, or when she kneels, or when she takes the dagger from his loose grip and returns it to her belt. He shakes when she wraps him in an awkward hug though and he cries when she runs her fingers through his hair. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s cried but he doesn’t know what else to do. If his sister spoke the truth, if Anna truly had-

But Anna had saved his life. He remembers how many times she’d intervened for his sake.

But Anna had been  _ able _ to save his life. He remembers, too, the look that had passed between her and Delilah.

“Percy,” Cass says, whispered to his ear. “The Briarwoods.”

Slowly, he goes still. He goes certain. Even if he is unsure about Anna he is not about the Briarwoods. There are still tear tracks on his cheeks as he uncurls but no more flow.

“All right,” he says. “All right.”

He’s shaking but this isn’t fear. For the first time in five years, this is anger. Excitement. Exhilaration. 

“Cass,” he says as he rises. His trousers shift uncomfortably over his legs where Anna’s blood has seeped in. “May I have a moment?”

There’s a secret in this room, something secret even from Anna. Something he’d had worked in when it was made, when Anna trusted him completely. Something he’d like to keep a secret, if he can. A project that had been his and his alone. Cass doesn’t make a noise as she nods and backs away, her friends following her out. He closes his eyes. He sighs. If nothing else, he can help his sister in this. He has no idea what he can do after, with his world so shattered to pieces. 

With two bloodied fingers he closes Anna’s eyes. It leaves two bloodied dots on her eyelids. For a moment longer he looks, taking in her face and what he’s done. 

Then, from a hidden compartment, he takes the weapon he’s spent five years on.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments! And also, feel free to come yell at me on [tumblr!](http://essayofthoughts.tumblr.com/)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is not done yet.

Percy leads them the rest of the way down. He knows the traps here too but he doesn’t explain this time. Killing Ripley seems to have taken half his energy from him and all the rest is dedicated to keeping them safe as they make their way down. He’s a metal contraption in his hand that wasn’t there before and when Cass had peeked into the lab before they followed him she’d seen a panel in the wall open to blackness and that someone had closed Ripley’s eyes.

It worries her that, even having killed her, Percy had it in him to close her eyes.

* * *

“There,” Cass’ brother says. His voice is soft, a little raw, perhaps, and his eyes a little red but mostly his voice sounds soft and tired. He has one hand raised; a gesture to stop. The other hangs at his side, some metal contraption held with care. Ahead of him, where the cavern opens up and the floor slopes away, they can see a ziggurat.

It looks, Vex thinks, rather like the one where they met Osysa.

“Ioun?” Vex asks with a frown. Percival seems to startle, then shakes his head.

“Her enemy,” he says without looking over to her. “Vecna. The Whispered One. Demigod of Undeath and Secrets.” He glances down to Cass, stood at his side. What he says next is so quiet Vex has to strain to hear it but hear it she does. “This is what I meant by below,” he whispers. “It is- Cass. They took them here.”

Cass looks horrified. Vex doesn’t doubt the face she’s making - the faces they’re all making - are much the same. They’re all horrified by this, backs gone ramrod straight. The Briarwoods killed the de Rolos, destroyed their crypts, set undead loose in their city’s streets. 

And they desecrated them all still further, corpses dragged atop a corrupted temple to an undead god. 

“Percy,” Cass says, reaching to take his hand where it’s now fallen to his side. He flinches when Cass touches him but doesn’t recoil. “It’s time to end this. End them.”

He doesn’t look away. For a long moment there is silence and Vex has no idea what he might do. He’s killed Ripley for Cass and that means something, even if none of them are yet entirely sure what. Vex wonders if he has the strength to help them kill the Briarwoods too. He’s spent five years with them. For all they know he’s as Charmed as Seeker-

_ “Shit,” _ Vex hisses and doesn’t manage to stifle herself in time.

The rest of the party turns to her, confusion clear on all their faces. Even  _ Percival _ turns and he’s been seemingly drained of anything but base purpose since they walked into the lab to find Ripley bloodied and dead on the floor. Vex turns to her brother, takes his hands in hers.

“Back at Greyskull,” she whispers quickly. “Seeker Assum. Remember, what the Briarwoods did to him, what he said they did to-”

“To Uriel.” Vax’s face is stony and only his voice softens when he turns to Keyleth. “Kiki,” he says, then glances down to Pike, “Pickle. Are- are either of you up to casting a Greater Restoration?”

Cass’s frown is as strong as the acid in the lab they left. “If he wanted us dead he could have led us into any trap he wanted,” she points out. “I don’t think we need to waste a spell on  _ this. _ He’s already killed Ripley.”

Beside her, her brother seems to flinch at the reminder.

“Unless they  _ wanted _ us down here,” points out Scanlan. “They knew we were coming, they’ve clearly had some kind of a plan in place in case of disruption. Maybe this is part of it.”

“You gotta admit, Cass, ‘e does seem kinda shifty.” 

Cass turns frowning to Grog but the goliath, if he feels guilty for saying it, doesn’t show any sign.

They glance at each other. Pike and Keyleth nod to Vax. Percival, where the tunnel begins to open up, seems resigned.

“He’s my  _ brother,” _ Cass tries. “He killed Ripley!”

Percival, Vex notices, flinches again. There is, in his eyes, a guilty and a grieving look that Vex does not entirely understand but that she recognises as a genuine sense of loss. 

The question, she supposes, is if it is Ripley he is grieving, or if it is something he is about to lose.

“Cass,” he says and his voice is soft. His hand, when it reaches out, doesn’t quite touch her shoulder but almost. Enough that Cass sighs and settles. “Let them. It would help my peace of mind too.”

It’s Pike who steps forward, hands glowing golden, and when she approaches him, Percy offers her his hands willingly.

* * *

Nothing seems different when Pike steps back. The slight frown that’s creased Percival’s brow since they first saw him seems to have eased a little but his posture is unchanged, the set of his face. He seems as exhausted but determined as before.

“Percy?” Cass asks. It’s been a long time since Vex has heard Cass sound so hesitant.

Percival blinks once, twice, then shrugs. “I feel no different,” he says. 

“No opinions changed, no memories regained?” Keyleth’s voice is only a little probing and Percival shakes his head.

“Well damn,” Scanlan says. “That’s an anticlimax.” 

“We’re in the open,” Vax reminds them. “If the Briarwoods are up there-”

“I don’t think they’d be expecting company just yet,” Percival says quietly. There’s something considering in his tone, thoughtful as he stares past them to the pale-green shape rising above them. “I don’t doubt that they know the castle has been infiltrated but this-” He gestures. “Very few were ever told about it, let alone how to descend safely. And after Anders, Anna-”

He cuts himself off, eyes half-closing. Vex wishes she knew how to read his expression but the mixture of pain and wistfulness, of grief and affection, is hard to make sense of given everything.

“If we stay quiet,” he says, when his eyes open. “Odds are, we’ll have the advantage. But Delilah is powerful. You should- you should be careful.”

* * *

Battle is frantic, frenetic, more so than things usually are even for them. Sylas Briarwood, a  _ bloody vampire, _ can move far faster than any being has any right to and he darts across the stretch of space at the very top of the ziggurat with ease. Delilah Briarwood is no better: for all that she, at least, seems to be as squishily human as they could hope she’s not easy to fight,  _ misty step _ and necrotic spells making her almost as quick and deadly as her husband. 

Vex swears, nocks two arrows to her bow, and swears again when the second misses. She’s low on holy oil. The only blessed weapons they have are Pike’s and the dagger Pike enchanted for Cass. Keyleth has her  _ sunbeam _ spell prepared which is wonderful but timing is everything and with how quickly Sylas moves, if she casts it too early she’ll be a target.

This is less than ideal.

Vex hangs back: she’s better at a distance and for all that she’ll send Trinket charging in to help the others, she really doesn’t want him close by to the Briarwoods anymore than she does any of her family. Percival too is hanging back, using his device to fire small pieces of ammunition with explosive force, the noise of it echoing loudly in the vast cavern.

Grog swings when Sylas gets too close and the axe digs into the vampire’s back before his attempt with that terrible dark sword can hit. Grog yells in glee and swings again and when Vax’s daggers follow suit it draws the ire of Delilah. Vex, swearing, shoots the damned witch again, lightning skittering off whatever enchantment the woman wears to protect herself, and Delilah turns towards them, eyes narrowing at Vex in seeming recognition from Emon and then widening, gaze dark with anger, when she spots Percival.

“Ungrateful boy!” she shouts. “We should never have let Anna keep you!” 

Percival’s answer isn’t a shout; it’s so quiet Vex might not have heard it if she wasn’t close by.

“Perhaps so,” he says almost to himself and, without hesitating, he finishes reloading his device - five small lumps of metal and one a pale glass green - and aims it at Sylas.

The first shot he fires is bright, brighter than any of the explosions his device has yet produced and when it hits Sylas in the chest the vampire  _ screams. _ The golden light of it doesn’t fade; it’s not a lingering sunspot from the explosion - whatever Percival fired  _ glows _ like that, bright as the sun and burning just as much if Sylas’ ongoing yell is anything to go by. Gods, she hopes Percival has another thing like that.

Scanlan sings something out, something taunting, mocking and when Delilah turns, face twisted in fury, Pike’s mace smashes into her elbow before her spiritual weapon swings down. Vax’s knives soon follow, Grog’s axe, Percival grits his teeth and snarls when his device explodes against his hand and when he gestures in anger a spark of flame shoots from his finger with as much force as any of his shots have from his device. From the look on his face, he wasn’t expecting it.

They’re all of them bleeding before long, even Percival where he stands at a distance, some noxious spell from Lady Briarwood catching him and sending him stumbling. Cass yells to see it, something terrible and raw to her voice and when she hurls her daggers again, the blessed one strikes true, right into the column of Sylas Briarwood’s throat.

He screams and chokes, gurgling as Pike sends her spectral blade into his side, as Grog’s axe follows suit, and when he turns into mist Keyleth finally unleashes her  _ sunbeam, _ beautiful and blindingly bright, eradicating him for good.

Delilah’s scream is a terrible thing, grieving and brutal and broken, and when she goes to run for the doors to whatever lies deeper in, Percival’s voice makes her stop dead.

“It’s not time,” he calls, calm and clear and final. “You’ll fail.”

She looks like a wild animal, grieving and with nothing left to fight for and when Grog’s axe takes her head off at the shoulders it’s almost an anticlimax.

* * *

They do not step beyond the doors. Cass takes one look at her brother’s face, at his expression and his shaken head and leaves the doors as they are, shut tight.

“We’ll want Yennen,” Percival says. “The bodies - they need to be set to rest.”

Cassandra says nothing more. There’s Delilah’s body to consider but Scanlan is already checking it over for anything useful; a few items fell from Lord Briarwood’s final mistform but Vax gathers those up. 

They make their way back down the ziggurat, back up to the castle and don’t entirely know what to do at the mass of cheering townspeople they find there, Keeper Yennen at their front.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this there's just an epilogue chapter left for this arc, after which I may take a break or post some little oneshot things while I finish up Arc2 of this fic for posting - there is more to this fic, this is not the end!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter; please leave comments!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And end - and perhaps a new beginning.

Vex’ahlia finds him up on the tower balcony. There’s a waist-high wall and he’s sat there, feet dangling over the edge. He knows Cassandra and the rest of Vox Machina have headed into Whitestone to decide the fates of the new nobles and to celebrate the end of the Briarwoods regime with the people but he- he needs peace, not people, and so he sought the tower.

He still isn’t sure why magic had finally clicked for him at the ziggurat. He isn’t sure how he feels about it either.

“Mind if I join you, Percival?”

She’s a tall figure all in black, is Vex’ahlia but she’s not the same ominous presence as the Briarwoods or their followers. There’s a strange warmth to her presence as there is with all of Cassandra’s friends and once again Percy is glad she found them. Percy doesn’t say a word, he just gestures at the space beside him. She’s graceful as she hops up and sits cross-legged beside him. The wall is just broad enough for her to manage it and she perches as ready as a bird. She is, Percy reminds himself, a ranger. High spaces are likely as easy to her as the ground.

“Percy,” he says as she settles into place. “You might as well. Vex’ahlia, isn’t it?”

“Vex is fine,” she says. “Not going to join the others?” 

Percy shakes his head. “They don’t need me there,” he says. “What about you? Your brother is down there. Your friends.”

“Your sister,” Vex counters.

Percy’s hands tucked in his lap, fold awkwardly over one another. 

“You’re avoiding her,” Vex says quietly. “We all saw you flinch back from her when we found you. And now when you could join the celebration you’re up here, avoiding her-”

“I’ve done things. To survive. Things she shouldn’t have any part of. She ran. She rallied support. She returned. I-” He trails off, hands twisting in his lap. “I was scared. I stayed. I should have done more.”

Vex doesn’t say anything but she watches him, eyes bright and watchful as a raven’s. Intelligent and aware, considering every aspect. He’s always liked ravens. They were one of the few birds to stay during the Briarwoods presence. Now, with the Briarwoods gone, they linger but are increasingly hidden amongst other birds. 

“Percy,” she says.

“It would be easy, you know,” he says, gesturing down at the vast space ahead of them. The words fill in without being said.  _ Easy to end it all. _ When he looks over to her, Vex looks aghast. “I’m not going to,” he assures her. “I’d not leave someone else my mess to clean up. I’ve a list of ways I’d end it all and falling doesn’t even make it.”

“You’ve got a list,” Vex says, slowly.

“I spent five years with a vampire, a necromancer, and the most amoral scientist in existence,” he says dryly. “Of course I have a list.”

Her gaze is considering, mouth a little pursed. “This list,” she says, “Is it in your head or written down?”

He likes her. Smart enough to already guess. He taps his temple with one finger. “It’s unwise to leave escape plans where paranoid employers might find them,” he says. “Anna taught me that one.”

She watches him, head tilted. Like a raven. There’s two blue feathers in her hair as well, following the fine point of her ear. She really is rather like a bird, watchful, careful and quiet. Considering the best course. He likes that, too. His sister’s gathered good friends around herself.

“Is that how you see it?” she asks. “An escape?”

Percy shrugs. He’s no illusions as to what his list was to be - an escape, a way out, a means to an end, even if that end was specifically his own. “It’s what Sylas and Delilah would have seen it as,” he says. “Though there was no guarantee it would have worked. She was a necromancer, remember.”

He startles a little as her hand reaches and takes his. It’s warm and gentle with an archer’s calluses on the pads of her fingers. 

“Don’t use it,” she says. “Your list. Not- I can tell you, the world is a better place with you in it. Wanting to survive is no crime and now that you have, you can do any number of things if you think you need to make amends. Don’t-”

Gently, he squeezes her fingers. “I won’t,” he says and something about her concern makes him smile. It’s- it’s nice to be cared about. Cassandra is family and doesn’t count and she shouldn’t care, really, after all he did. But Vex’ahlia knows enough of what happened to judge him and has decided to care all the same. It’s- he still should have done more. But it’s kind of her to think he can do more now. “Thank you,” he says instead and smiles a little more. 

“Come on down,” she says, tugging his hand as she stands up atop the wall. He really has no idea how she manages to balance as she does so, despite the width of the wall. “You’ve survived. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself a little.” She hops down from the wall with an almost teasing grin but she’s still holding his hand. It’s nice. He finds his smile staying in place at her insistence.

“All right,” he says, turning atop the wall to join her. “But I reserve the right to leave if things get too awkward.”

She lets go of his hand once they’re both standing on the balcony instead of sat on the railing but they walk downstairs comfortably close and the small smile never leaves Percy’s face.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it from this arc of the story! I'm working on finishing up Arc2 and with any luck I'll have some smaller (still Perc'ahlia-related) fics to upload in the next couple weeks as I do that.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this and please leave comments with your thoughts!


End file.
